


Deceptive Cadence

by daae



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:12:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 81,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daae/pseuds/daae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all have to learn to live with the choices we make. To save Raoul’s life, Christine agrees to be Erik’s wife for twenty years. But how do you survive two decades with someone you don’t love? Leroux-inspired Modern AU. Dark E/C. Collab.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"I have only a few personal desires, when we’re married. I want our life together to be as normal as possible. I want to have a proper church wedding like I've always dreamed of having... I want us to be faithful to our vows like a proper husband and wife... I want us to have a nice house to live in together... I really do not think it will be as terrible as you imagine._

_"Like I said, I've thought about this quite a bit. And there are concessions I am willing to make to ensure your comfort and happiness. The first is I have no expectation of consummating the marriage. I would not subject you to that horror. The second is… The second is... I will... only hold you to a period of twenty years."_

_"Then what?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Twenty years, then what? Then do we just get a divorce and go our separate ways?"_

_“In a way.”_

 

 

That’s what he said to her.

That was two months ago. It was April now.

The house was a spacious but ordinary two-story home in an ordinary neighborhood. From the outside it would never look like much, merely respectable and unremarkable, no different from their neighbors in the area, really―just the way Erik preferred it. On Christine’s part, when she'd only ever slept in cramped apartments and the back seats of cars, it was much too large for her taste.  Built in an English Tudor-style, it stood on a granite ledge overlooking the grey Atlantic, surrounded by verdant lawns that would require considerable effort to maintain. A thick woodland of carefully cultivated trees, too, enclosed the house and established their privacy so effectively that she couldn’t see the homes of even their nearest neighbors, who lived just within screaming distance. If she hadn’t seen them as they drove up to the property, she would think they lived utterly alone on this cold little cape.

Christine had made a point of not being invested in the house-hunt, but now that they were there she was unable to hide that she was reasonably impressed with it. The rooms were all set out with plenty of space, and it made her think that this house was far too big for just two people. Even when all the furniture was set up, she had a feeling it would still feel empty.

She tried not to think about whether this would be her home for the rest of her life. But for now, it would do, and she would make at least a vague attempt at being happy with it.

When they’d arrived at the house, she’d collected their cat Edgar out of the back seat of the car without a word to her husband. Even Edgar was tied up with Erik, with memories of the few days they’d spent out in public. Rescuing Edgar was one of the few worthwhile things they had done together. She still remembered the day they’d brought him home. He was so small. He still was.

She set him down on the top of his tower in the downstairs living room. He mewed plaintively and she smiled indulgently, rubbing his head. Since then, Christine had aimlessly wandered the empty rooms and corridors until she found a quiet out of the way room on the main floor. She pulled out her book and began to read.

Not long after, from down the hall, she heard Erik’s voice becoming louder as he directed the movers, pulling her from her thoughts.

“In here, gentlemen. Gently does it.”

She glanced up from her book to see a pair of men rolling in the grand piano on its side, meticulously wrapped and padded, sans legs, into the room where she sat. Hovering nearby was Erik, his spidery hands fiddling anxiously at his sides as he supervised their progress, looking ready to leap at the nearest person should the instrument be even gently bumped. He smiled faintly when he noticed her looking in his direction, and she didn’t return it, watching him without a word.

The aquiline nose and the soft cheekbones suited him. If pressed, she might have admitted he looked surprisingly handsome. But it was a lie. She wasn’t staring at a real face―she was staring at a masterful construction of makeup, silicone, and prosthetics made to look like one. It might fool strangers, but it didn’t fool her. She knew what he hid.

“Everything alright, dear?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Her attention returned to her book. She flipped a page.

“Can I bring you anything?”

“Maybe later.”

“Well, don’t hesitate to tell me if you change your mind.”

Once the legs had been reattached and the piano set upright, Erik and the men disappeared the way they came. From the corner of her her eye, she caught him glancing hopefully over his shoulder at her as he walked away, which she tried not to acknowledge.

 

 

_"When we're married, Christine... when we're married, I want you to be happy. I've thought a lot about this, you know... I could make you very happy if you will let me. Plenty of people, you know, get married without love and adore each other later. I don't think it will be as horrible as you imagine.”_

 

 

 

Memories leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, Christine moved to the dining room, hoping she would be able to avoid her husband for a few more hours.

 

//

 

It was sunset by the time she heard the movers get into the trucks and drive off. Without the indistinct conversation of the workers just out of earshot and the heavy tread of burdened feet stepping above and around her, the house felt uncomfortably empty and quiet, gloomy even.

She sat in the dining room, but on the floor, a book on her lap. She absently braided her hair and seemed reasonably content for the moment. Edgar now lay nearby, watching nothing in particular while his tail flicked lazily.

A tall dark shadow suddenly loomed in the corner of her vision. Erik took a seat at the table with his laptop and while it booted up, she could feel his eyes on her. Over the past few months she had turned pretending not to notice his gaze into a fine art. After a moment, he turned away, and began typing thoughtfully. Without looking directly, she instinctively knew the face was gone, replaced by his usual black, leather house mask. They would be staying in for the evening.

"Will pizza be alright tonight?" he asked. "Tomorrow morning we can properly stock the fridge."

She shrugged back out of habit more than anything. "Just as long as we get vegetarian. I'm gonna barf if I ever have to look a slice of pepperoni in the eye again." There was a slight teasing glint to her eye, but she hadn't looked up from her book.

"I'd be very alarmed to meet a pepperoni with eyes," Erik murmured. "Certainly wouldn't want one on my pizza."

At that, she smiled slightly. "I'm gonna assume you've never been to a really shady pizza joint then."

"I've been to a few in my time, though normally the sausage had legs. I hope it was sausage anyway." She felt him glancing hopefully in her direction. It had been worth a chuckle, but she didn’t bother. He gave up and returned to presumably sending their pizza order. Once done, he closed the laptop and stretched while surveying the cavernous, still unfamiliar landscape of their home. "How do you like your ocean?"

She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her book on top of them. "'S nice. I like this house."

"I thought you might. I’m quite partial to the tall ceilings myself...” Erik’s eyes drifted upwards and gave a wan smile. Christine glanced at him. After a moment, he continued. “The basement is unfinished, though I prefer it that way. That will be my first home improvement project, I think... Would you like to see your bedroom?"

She nodded, getting to her feet. "But... why do you need the basement when... I mean we-  _you_ already have the house."

Erik shrugged at her question and gestured for Christine to follow him around the corner to the stairs that lead to the second floor.

"It will be someplace quiet I can work or play without disturbing you... Besides, the house won’t feel complete to me without a safe room. It's a peculiarity, I know..."

Peculiarity, indeed. Christine thought back to his old place outside the city and the panic room―apartment, really―in the basement where he had lived. The place had been so secure even she could not find the door out until he decided to show her where it was. It was where he had taken her the first time he… brought her to visit, and all the other times she returned. At the time, Erik told her he felt safer down there than in the house above, but she had always felt an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia when they had descended the narrow staircase together. Always together.

He led her to the master bedroom, filled with unfamiliar furniture and cardboard boxes stacked along the walls. The room’s greatest feature was a large French window overlooking the ocean opposite the king-sized bed, whose bare and pristine white mattress, combined with the open window, only emphasized the emptiness and sterility of the room. As was his habit, he lingered in the doorway, as though unable or unwilling to cross the threshold, like some sort of vampire.

Her face remained blank as she looked out the window, even though the view, and the room, pleased her. She watched him for a moment. "How many bedrooms are there?"

"Five total. I imagined we could turn at least one into a guest bedroom in case your family would like to visit, or Ghaz and Darius..." Erik crossed his arms over his chest.  "Then perhaps a library... a coffee laboratory..." From the glimmer in his eyes, he was probably kidding. Probably.

She didn't rise to the bait―eventually, yes, she did want a plumbed coffee machine, but she could work on that particular goal later.

"Five," she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"It's hard to find large houses with only one or two bedrooms," he replied airily, sounding entirely unapologetic, though his shoulders hunched defensively. “A music room would be lovely, too, don’t you think?”

"Where's yours?"

He stepped out into the hall to open the door directly across from hers. His room was smaller by default with only one modest window. She felt rather like she was looking into the quarters of a servant.

She crossed her arms and stiffened visibly, the content expression disappearing. For all his harping on about propriety…

"Oh," she intoned quietly. "Okay. Fine."

He closed the door on the dark room and watched her cautiously.  "Something the matter? Would you prefer I took the one at the end of the hall instead?"

Her arms tightened around herself. "Um... n- of course not. You don't have to do that."

"You would prefer it," Erik said flatly, frowning.

Christine pursed her lips and looked down, away from him. "I didn't say that."

"And yet that is very much the implication. Why does it bother you? They're separate bedrooms, and you have your own bathroom now..." He pointed into her room.

"I didn't say that," she insisted a little more harshly.

"Then do tell me what it is you're actually thinking."

"Nothing." She chewed on her lip for a moment, before making for the stairs to go back down.

Erik sighed loudly in frustration and threw his hands in the air. "What are you so afraid of? It's hardly any different than our previous sleeping arrangements. Better, in fact. Are you afraid I'm going to pop over for sleepovers from time to time?”

Christine glanced back at him, a little shocked. "I didn't say that either."

He followed after her, eyes briefly narrowing. "No, you didn't. In fact, you've said absolutely nothing and that's what's annoying me. This is your house too, you know. You're allowed to request adjustments and alterations."

"This isn't my house," she said quietly, returning back downstairs and to her place on the floor. "Don't lie to me."

Erik massaged his temple with a long finger as he followed her, then detoured to the kitchen in order to set out dinner for Edgar. "How am I lying to you? This is your house. You live here. With me. Now, if you want to spend the next two decades pretending it isn't, that's your choice, but then you have no one to blame but yourself if you're uncomfortable or annoyed with something."

"I didn't pay for it. It's not mine. It's yours." Her eyes narrowed and she scratched at a patch on the back of her neck, finger tracing over a scar. "I don't want you to move. God forbid I disadvantage you."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest again and scrutinizing her expression.

Christine rolled her eyes and idly turned a page in her book.

Erik sighed with exasperation and stalked towards the fridge to procure a soda from the very empty fridge.

"You know, I was fully prepared to pick a different room if it bothered you so much," he said, cracking open the can. "I really was. But if you're going to be impossible and ridiculous about it, then I think I'll stay put. Obviously whatever is annoying you about the arrangement can't possibly be all that serious."

"I don't want you near me," she said quietly.

Erik flinched at that, watching her with unreadable eyes, then snapped hotly with renewed anger: "There, was that so hard? Now, shall I sleep in the basement? Or is that still too near?"

She nodded minutely, but managed to say instead, "Don't be silly."

Erik rolled his eyes and could not have replied in a more disingenuous tone. "Right, I'll move to the basement then at the next earliest convenience."

"Thank you," Christine snapped, moving to sit on top of the dining table, where she was evidently more comfortable. For a few moments she read on in silence, hoping and believing that the topic was over for the time being.

No such luck.

"Why does it bother you so much? I've already promised you I won't touch you―as per your request―and I've done quite well so far I think. But I should be allowed to be in my wife’s company from time to time."

She turned another page, disinterestedly glancing up at him for a moment. "Doesn't mean I trust you."

"I don't see why you shouldn't. I've never laid a finger on you without your permission. I have been nothing but respectful," he said darkly, setting aside his drink and―as if desperate for something to do―cut open a box at random in the kitchen with a savage swipe. He began to lift dishes onto the counter in quick, efficient motion.

"So how about coercing me into marrying you?" she asked, eyes narrowing. Her lip curled and her voice was mocking. "Is that the respectful behavior of a gentleman?"

 

 

_"I will not force you to marry me... but again, I remind you, that comes at the cost of your boy's life. I am perfectly capable of making him disappear where neither you, his brother, nor the federal government will ever find him, then carry on with my life as I always have. I've been alone for nearly forty years. What is another forty more?"_

_"And that's not forcing me?"_

_"No. Decline my offer and you may go on to live whatever life you choose, marry whomever else you like."_

_"And if I do this, you won't go near him? Ever?"_

_"If you do this, I will be too busy taking care of my wife to go near him or even think about him. Because you will be too busy being my wife to talk to him. You have my word."_

 

 

"That has nothing to do with the subject at hand! We're talking about physical contact. And you could have said no."

"And killed someone. You knew I wouldn't do that."

"Perhaps I wouldn't have killed him. Perhaps I would have kept him for my own amusement," Erik snapped. "It was still a choice you made."

"It wasn't a choice," she said, her voice almost a growl. "You knew I wasn't going to say no."

"I didn't, actually. I was fully expecting you to decline." He turned his back to her, robotically setting plates into a cupboard.

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why did you ask?"

Erik didn't answer at first, continuing to unpack. When he did, it was with a shrug. "What did I have to lose?"

She paused, breath catching in her throat. And quickly, got down off the table, picking Edgar up as she went, moving back towards the stairs. The cat mewed in surprise.

"I'm not hungry," she snapped as she made her escape.

"You've hardly eaten anything all day!" Erik protested, following after her but stopping at the bottom of the stairs. "And you're not going to like what happens if you pass out or waste away."

She raised an eyebrow, turning on him halfway up. "Oh, really? And what's that?"

"Because then I'll be forced to touch you for your own good. I'll have to pick you up to feed you or take you to the hospital to have a needle put in your arm. It is in your best interests to look after your own health if you don't want your husband putting his awful hands on you."

Her mouth stiffened into a line. "I'm not hungry. Leave me alone."

"For how long?" Erik asked snidely, canting his head and not concealing the irritation in his voice.

“Twenty years," she muttered and moved briskly towards her room.

"You wish!" snapped Erik at her, launching up the stairs at an aggressive speed.

But she got there before he did. Once inside, she slammed the door behind her and sank down against it, wrapping her arms around her legs. She felt him lurking just beyond, but he did not try the handle.

"I remind you,” he growled through the door, “that it is also in your best interests to remain a living bride. A dead one cannot protect that ex of hers."

"Don't tempt me," she hissed, not allowing herself to cry.

But before he could further do anything rash, she heard him storm away down the stairs with a snarl of frustration. The clatter and chink of briskly moving cutlery resumed from the kitchen.

From her lap, Edgar regarded her with his owlish, yellow eyes. He purred noisily, then slunk to the carpet to begin prowling the room. She watched him, heart pounding, and wanting to scream. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger until it hurt.

 

_"I have something to tell you."_

_"What is it?"_

_"I'm getting married."_

"What?"

_"I'm getting married. To him."_

_"But…why?"_

_"That's not important. It doesn't matter."_

_"It does matter!" A few heads turned toward them in the restaurant. He quickly lowered his voice. "It does matter. Is he… is he making you..?"_

_"No. He gave me a choice."_

_"A choice? What choice?"_

_"Whether or not to say yes. I chose to say yes."_

_"You said yes? Why?"_

_"Because it was the right thing to do."_

_"The right thing? How is this the right thing?"_

_"It's what's best for everyone."_

_"How is this benefiting anyone but him?"_

_"Raoul… Please try to understand this from my perspective. I could have said no. I could have said no and I didn't. I made this decision. It will be much better for you."_

_"How could it possibly be better for me? I love you, Christine. Please don't marry that… that man. You don't have to. After all he's done, he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve you. I… I'm not saying I do either. I don't, but… I know you won't be happy with him. Please don't marry him."_

_"I ask that you don't try to contact me or find me after this. It would be much better for you to move on."_

_"So I'll just never see or talk to you again? I… I can't do that, Christine. I don't want to move on."_

_"Neither do I. But this is what has to happen. You'll be very happy if you give yourself a chance, you know."_

_"But it doesn't have to happen. You don't have to marry him.” He grabbed for her hand. “ ...Marry me instead! You don't have to marry him. Please!"_

_"I want you to leave us alone and live your life."_

_"No… Tell me the truth. Please..."_

_"That is the truth."_

_"It's not. I know it's not. I know you don't want this. Please, just tell me what you really want."_

_"So you can try to give it to me and get yourself killed. Leave us alone."_

_"No...Christine, please… please don't do this. ...I'll look for you. I will. I'll come find you."_

_"No, you will not. You will stay away from us."_

_"You know I can't do that."_

_"I hate you."_

_"You… You don't mean that…”_

_"I hate you. You annoy me. I want you to leave me alone. Forever."_

_"I… I love you. That will never change."_

_"I know.”_

 

 

When she finally did manage to master her breathing, Christine rose to her feet and narrowed her eyes, moving quietly to a stack of boxes in the room.

Oh, her husband was so _thoughtful_ to have all her things brought up for her! However could she thank him?

 

//

 

About an hour later, Christine returned downstairs, barefoot and in a silky nightgown that went only down to her mid-thigh. Truthfully, she wasn't quite sure why she owned it, but suddenly she was glad she did. Indeed, she wasn't going to let Erik touch her. And, if he was going to be such a bastard about it, she was also going to be sure to make it painful for him.

She found Erik in the kitchen working diligently on his laptop while listening to some classical Internet radio station, his unblinking attention fixed on the screen. A half-empty bottle of wine stood on the table near a greasy pizza box. When he heard her enter the room, he glanced up with a pointed glare in her direction and took a disinterested sip from his glass. But upon really seeing her, he stared openly in shock that the mask could not conceal while his ears flushed pink. The glass fell from his numb fingers and landed with a shatter, sending red wine over the hardwood floor.

Christine sat quietly at the dining table, crossing her legs and opening her book again. She smiled slightly, inspecting a fingernail.

"How was the pizza?" she asked quietly, ignoring the drink on the floor.

"It was... ah..." Erik closed his mouth and swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from her in spite of his best efforts to inspect just how much of a mess he'd made. Satisfaction bloomed in her chest.  "Are you... sure you aren't, er... hungry? I can... get..."

She glanced disinterestedly up at him, toying with a strand of her hair and smiling obliviously. "Sorry, what? You're mumbling a little."

Erik cleared his throat and tried again in a stabler voice. "Are you sure... you aren't hungry?"

She shrugged with a little more exaggeration than necessary. "I'm fine, thank you."

Erik casually rubbed a hand over his mask, pressing it firmly against his skin as he did when he was too warm. "Then… would you, ah... like some tea or... coffee instead?"

Christine smiled at him for a second as if she was aware of exactly what she was doing. She leaned forward to brace her elbows on the table. "Mmmm... no, I'm fine, thanks."

"Y'sure?" he asked in a slightly choked voice, his ears now very red. He pulled his eyes back up to her face with some difficulty, shame reading very clearly in his gaze.

Her smile was innocent again. "Yes, I'm sure, thanks. You haven’t answered my question.”

"Question?"

She shook her head in tired amusement, as if speaking to a child. "Honestly, don't you listen? I'm not gonna eat the pizza if I don't know how it is. How was it?"

"Oh, ah... sorry, my... ears are ringing a little," he mumbled. He slouched in his chair. "It was... fine. I don't much like vegetarian... I only bought it for you…"

"So thoughtful," she said, getting to her feet, moving to the kitchen, and bending in front of the fridge for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. "Thank you for being so considerate."

Erik hastily glanced away with a soft, incoherent word under his breath and pressed his face into his hands. "You're welcome―how, ah... that nightgown is... it's new, isn't it?"

Christine looked down at herself, an innocent expression crossing her face as if she'd only just noticed what she was wearing. "Oh, this? Mm, I've had it a while. Nice, isn't it?"

"Really nice, yeah.” He dared to chance another look, looking very much like a child peeking through his fingers at a film. “You, ah... you look very well in it."  

She bit her lip to suppress a proud smirk. "Oh, do I? Thank you. I was thinking of going to bed early tonight, so..."

"Are you very tired?"

Christine pretended to yawn, taking the opportunity to stretch, the hem of her skirt inching a little higher as she did. "Now that you mention it, I am a little."

Erik slouched a even lower in his chair and crossed his legs. "I'll... be awake a little longer I think. But if you need anything... ah... anything at all, let me know, alright? I'm here to... help."

Christine grinned, putting two slices onto a plate and into the microwave, pressing a few buttons before she returned to her chair. She pouted sympathetically. "Aw, can't you sleep? Why's that?"

"I, ah... no reason," he stammered, struggling in his diligent attempts to keep his eyes averted. "One of those nights, you know?"

"Aw, that's too bad," she said quietly, reaching out as if she might rub his arm before changing her mind and placing her hand back on her thigh, tapping impatiently. Erik visibly tensed as she reached out, but his relief was short-lived.

"You'll just have to stay up, huh?"

"Yeah," he breathed, staring up at her with a look of fear.

She bit her lip, meeting his eyes with confidence and smiling invitingly.

He hesitated, the temptation clear in his gaze, but uncertainty overcame him. He quickly turned away with a shaky breath and rested his elbows on the table to massage his temples as best he could around the edge of the mask. "So it's, ah... it's alright if... you touch me but I don't touch you, right?"

She chuckled breathily, getting up to fetch her pizza. "Why do you ask?"

Erik took that opportunity to get to his feet and walk briskly towards the sink. He wet a new rag, then returned to carefully crouch down beside the table to pick up broken glass and sop up the wine. "Just... just curious what the rules are."

"Depends on my mood, I s'pose," she said, sliding back into her seat. "You'd make a terribly handsome footstool."

"Do you really think so?” He kept his eyes resolutely on the floor. “Didn't think you were... into that sort of thing."

She laughed quietly, and it may have sounded a little sadistic. "Isn't your business if I am, babe."

Erik opened his mouth to answer, then apparently thought the better of it. "But hypothetically."

"Hypothetically..." She was laughing again. "Well, you could do me a favor."

"...Yes?" He made a valiant attempt to conceal the uncertainty in his voice.

She tilted her head. "You're not looking at me. Look at me."

He stopped what he was doing, holding the dripping rag in one hand. Then he very reluctantly allowed his gaze to drift upwards to where she was sitting, making unblinking eye contact. His ears had gone red again; so had the parts of his neck unconcealed by makeup.

She grinned, turning her attention to her pizza. She picked a piece of mushroom off and inspected it closely. "That was all. Better finish cleaning before that sinks in."

"You're really beautiful, you know that, right?" Erik said in a quiet voice, watching her a little longer.

She ate the mushroom, not even glancing at him. "Try talking when your blood's in your brain, kid.

She was met with embarrassed silence.  Erik got up and quickly returned to the sink to rinse out the rag and toss the broken pieces of glass into the trash. He lingered at the counter. "That wouldn't alter my observation."

She blinked. "Really. You think so?"

"It wouldn’t," he mumbled, staring at the pattern in the granite countertops.

She was chewing on her lip. Her demeanor shifted. "Then why do you treat me like this?"

"Like what?"

 

 

_"You're drunk. Go to bed or something."_

_"Or something… Look at you.. acting scared... do you think that makes me feel bad? I treat you... the way you treat me... if you're going to be... capricious, then so will I."_

_"I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I... you_ are _scaring me. Please stop."_

_"Good! If you don't want to be scared... then don't piss me off... you think... I have to let you go back? I could make you stay here until you fucking die if I wanted. Don't take... my kindness for granted. I don't have to give it... if I don't want to."_

 

 

Christine squeezed her knee with one hand to keep herself composed. "You really think you didn't force me into this?"

"Perhaps a little," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"A little." She looked up at him, and the humour was gone. There was hurt in her eyes. "A little?"

Erik was suddenly looking everywhere but her face. "I still maintain you could have said no. I was confident you'd say no, but... you're a good person and... I suppose good people don't... see choices like that."

She got to her feet and walked confidently towards him. "You still think I, the _good_ person, the _beautiful_ person, was going to say no, and let somebody die? You still think I'd be capable of that?" She stopped a couple feet shy of him, hands on her hips and feet firmly planted.

He back up against the sink and turned his head to look away at the floor, looking remarkably like a shamed dog. Erik shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "People are capable of hideous things when I'm concerned. I honestly wasn't sure. I know better now."

"Hideous things?" Her eyes narrowed, and she smiled again, stepping closer to him, but not touching. "Oh, honey, you have no idea."

Erik stood utterly still, his eyes closing. He snorted once in ugly laughter. "No, honey, _you_ have no idea. If this is the worst you can do..."

Her nose wrinkled with her spiteful expression. "You think I saved the worst I have for my first try?" She clicked her tongue. "No husband should underestimate his wife."

He leaned away slightly, in spite of himself. "I'll try to be impressed."

She stepped closer, barely a hair's breadth away from him. "If you have the presence of mind, I'm sure you will."

Erik gripped the edge of the counter, breathing gone shallow in a concerted effort not to close that tiny gap between them. His pulse was visibly rapid in his throat.  "I look forward to it," he whispered.

She laughed under her breath. "Oh, do you?" She stared up unfalteringly at him. "You're kinda cute when you can't breathe."

"Creeper," he whispered, side-eyeing her with a smirk.

Christine placed her hands either side of his face, tugging him roughly down to an inch or two away from hers. "What'd you call me, kid?" Her voice was still teasing and flirtatious, lips curled viciously.

A shiver he couldn't suppress ran through his tense body. His eyes snapped shut again, but a smirk emerged. "I didn't say anything."

She pressed her nose against the nose on the mask. He swore helplessly under his breath, gripping the edge of the sink so tightly his knuckles went white.

"I think you did. C'mon, don't lie to your wife."

Erik didn’t say anything at first, then reluctantly repeated the word under his breath. "Creeper."

"Thought so," she said, smirking back and stepping away, stretching again and facing away from him, her hands far above her head. "Oh, gosh, I'm sleepy..."

"You should sleep..." he mumbled. He leaned weakly back against the counter, his breathing uneven.

"Oh, gee, ya think? Thanks." She smiled sweetly in his direction, daring to wink. "Think I will. Nighty-night."

"Nighty-night," he echoed, his gaze still slightly unfocused. "Let me know if you need anything..."

She grinned, turning to blow him a kiss. "I'm sure I will, babe."

Erik clapped a hand over his heart as if struck by it and smirked faintly. "I'll be up later."

Christine winked again and turned up the staircase. Once out of sight, she stuck a finger in her mouth as if to gag, for nobody's benefit but hers. When she got to her room, she slammed the door behind her.

 

 

_"I understand the idea of wedding a monster is the stuff of your nightmares. Don't think I'm unsympathetic to that―believe me, Erik is trapped with him second of his life―and I, of course, cannot force you. But neither can I say which is more horrifying to you―marrying me or living alone in a world your boy no longer inhabits."_

_"D- Don't you dare say that. I'll never do that. No."_

_He canted his head and spoke in that pedantic tone that drove her crazy. "Never do what?"_

_ "Marry you. I would rather die."_

 


	2. Chapter 2

In July, Christine was exhausting her resources for entertainment. She lay sweating on her bed, thumbing through the last pages of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ , while Edgar lounged pathetically in front of the fan set up next to the bed. Raoul had given her _Babel_ by Mumford  & Sons on vinyl for her birthday, and the album―now playing digitally in the background―always reminded her of him. With her room finally unpacked and arranged, it was beginning to feel like something closer to a bedroom than a cell. Pictures of Meg and her girlfriend Cecile―now, there was someone she didn’t miss―sat among pictures of her parents and, later, just her father. One of the smiling, optimistic _Class of 2011_. Everyone from high school was probably in college now. Surely none were married. Not to men sixteen years older than them.

Christine returned to her book, holding her breath as she glanced over the last page, then snapped the book shut and placed it with a distinct sense of accomplishment atop the other six stacked on her nightstand. Done.

Honestly her bedroom setup―consistently free of husbands―would be pretty good if it weren’t so flippin’ hot. Again.

She peeled herself from the coverlet and crept from her room towards the thermostat in the hall and checked the numbers. To her irritation, it had been magically reset to a balmy seventy degrees. Who the hell let the thermostat run at seventy degrees when it was at least ninety outside with humidity so thick she could barely breathe? Erik, that’s who. The madman. Scowling, she nudged the air conditioning back on. If she caught him changing it one more time…

She stepped back into her room just as “Not With Haste” started up again on the iHome on her dresser. With annoyance she stalked over to shut the thing off, followed by a pang of guilt. She used to be able to listen to this album for hours… now she was beginning to hate it, and everything it reminded her that she didn’t have.

Christine sat back on her bed.

Now what?

This morning she had brushed enough fur off Edgar to form a second cat. Which she’d consequently done. Her eyes hurt from reading. She didn’t want to watch movies. She didn’t want to listen to music, either. And it was too freaking hot.

So desperate was she, in fact, that she actually went in search of the elusive Ice Man, who seemed to have no end of things to do, especially when she blasted Mumford & Sons from her bedroom.  Every time she turned around, another painting or pair of drapes had been hung, another shelf filled with books, a closet filled―it was like the house was being unpacked by a ghost. Or a house elf.

Perhaps she could convince him to buy her Rosetta Stone so she could reread Harry Potter in Swedish and experience the adventure afresh…

When she did manage to find him, to her surprise, it was in the backyard.

In a mask made of pale fabric, Erik perched on a ladder near one of the main doors, power screwdriver in hand. In spite of the humidity and direct afternoon sunlight, he wore a long-sleeved shirt that made Christine feel uncomfortably overheated just seeing it. With Erik’s attention wholly fixed on the task at hand, he didn’t notice her at first, and hummed to himself while he finished securing a discreet black dome under the eaves.

She leaned against the frame of the open door, crossing her arms and looking up at him not a little critically. Without greeting him, she watched him with what was quickly morphing into suspicion.

If that was what she thought it was…

Erik then climbed down to the ground and backed away into the lawn to examine his installation at a distance. Only then did he appear to notice her. He pulled out his earbuds with a smile.

"Oh, there you are, dear!” he said. “How are you? Can I get anything for you?"

She blinked a few times, eyes narrowing. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Security!" He sounded annoyingly cheerful. Pacing over the patio to the door, he stopped a few feet away from Christine, his eyes still on the gleaming black dome.

Christine stood up a little straighter, defensively. "What is it?"

He glanced to her, apparently confused that such a question seemed necessary.  "It's a camera."

At least she could see it, she had to give him that, but she had hoped agreeing to be bound legally to him would remove the need for constant surveillance―she still remembered the unsettling chill she’d felt when she’d realized that he’d rigged up her apartment with cameras and microphones and God only knew what else.

She raised an eyebrow, keeping her voice as even and reasonable as she could. "Why do you need a camera?"

Erik shrugged, arms folding over his damp chest.  "It's a large house and people are stupid."

Christine watched him a moment longer, quietly. "Okay," she finally said, blank. "I'm gonna go inside."

"Are you sure? It's a lovely day. You ought to get more sunlight. It's good for you."

As if Skeletor were one to talk.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Everything alright?"

Her lip twitched almost imperceptibly. "I would prefer you didn't have that camera up."

"Oh, they're only on the outside," he cajoled, the slightest note of protest in his voice, "in the event something happens."

"That's what the police are for." She was staring at the camera now, as if scrutiny intense enough could make it spontaneously combust.

Erik laughed aloud. "The police? Oh, you're funny. If it comes to that, this will make their job much easier."

She was chewing the inside of her lip. "I don't want them here."

"They're only outside," he repeated patiently. "They are important to have. It keeps us safe."

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. "That's why we live in a nice neighborhood. That's why we lock the doors at night."

"Doors don't keep people out if they're determined to get in… And it's a big house after all..."

"So what if it's a big house?"

"Please, Christine, just trust me on this. They are important to have and it won't feel safe without them. What will make you feel better about it?"

"If you take them down." She had crossed her arms again, meeting his gaze without shame or intimidation. Sweat had broken out on her arms and neck.

"What if I showed you where they all are? What if I showed you how to use them?"

Her mouth was a thin straight line. "I want to feel safe enough to go into my own damn yard without being watched."

"Then go into the yard! I have better things to be doing than watching cameras all day. It's there for emergencies. If something happens..."

That was a laugh. Nothing that any sane person would deem an emergency had ever happened under his surveillance, and he had always been smugly able to report back to her the exact words she’d exchanged with Raoul when they were in each other’s company―he had, indeed, seemed as if he did have nothing better to do.

Christine blinked and turned on her heel, retreating quietly into the house.

Erik followed after her. "What if I showed you how to turn them off when you go out? Would that be alright? It won't be like it was before, I promise..."

"No," she snapped, moving back to the living room.

"I would have thought you'd appreciate the fact that I picked ones you could actually see.” A sudden coolness entered his voice, like a draft. “I didn't have to do that, you know."

She wondered fleetingly if he’d ever taken any of the surveillance down. Raoul’s apartment had been bugged as thoroughly as her own. Perhaps he was still keeping an eye on Raoul, to be safe.

Christine turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Oh, you're right! How stupid of me! God, why didn't you say that in the first place? You're so good to me!"

"Oh, don't be like that..." Erik grumbled, pinching the space between his eyes. "There are certain dangers living above ground and as such, security is not optional. If I don't put them up, something will happen, and if anything happened to you..."

She rolled her eyes. "Nothing's happened for twenty years that would have changed if it had been recorded. I think I'm good."

"I wish I could say the same," he snapped. "Do you know how many windows I've had broken simply because I lived somewhere? Property vandalized? And if you'd been doing for the last twenty years what I'd been doing, you'd be a little paranoid, too."

"I haven't, though," she said viciously. "I don't get why I have to have them when I haven't been breaking the law like you have. Did you consider that that maybe has something to do with it?"

"It’s a little more complicated than that," he snapped. “And, like it or not, you live here with me now! And _that_ is why you must have them! Whatever bad decisions I’ve made in the past, I must live with the consequences whether I like them or not―that's fucking life. It would be naive and irresponsible to ignore that simply because you feel unfairly punished. No one is going to stop at the back window and think, oh, but Christine Daae did nothing wrong! We ought to leave Erik alone!”

Christine stared at him in silence, then moved quietly towards the stairs.

"If you hope to encourage my honesty, Christine,” Erik shouted after her, “this is the last way you should go about it!”

"I didn't say anything," she replied, voice only raised enough for him to hear it.

"You don't need to. You walking away says everything I need to know."

"Does it?" She put her chin in her hands, sitting at the top of the stairs and glaring down at him. "Please do tell me what I'm thinking, then."

Motionless at the bottom, he gripped the banister with one hand. "You don't want to hear what I have to say because it’s always one new terrible thing after another with Erik, isn’t it? No matter if it’s the truth, no matter how hard he’s tried to make amends and be responsible for himself, you don’t want to hear it. And if I’m a monster for trying to keep my house and my wife safe, then so be it―I’m a monster.”

"I said I didn't want them, that's all. Stop being such a drama queen."

"I'm not! I am telling you exactly why they have to be there, as honestly as I can."

She watched him. "Don't you have something else to do?"

Erik stared right back, eyes narrowing in a glare.

"The cameras stay," he hissed, then stormed off towards the back doors with a snarl of frustration.

"I'm going out, then," she replied, getting up and moving towards her bedroom.

That stopped Erik in his tracks and returned him towards the stairs. "Where?"

She’d already made it to her bedroom when he asked that question and didn’t see the necessity in rushing a reply for him. She was careful to take her time, shedding her damp jeans and t-shirt for a fresh set, and slipped on a pair of shoes.

When she stepped into the hall, Erik was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

“Where?” he repeated, a little more forcefully.

"Out," was her terse reply.

_“Where?"_

"Away from you. I'll take my phone." Her eyes narrowed.

Erik stiffened. "You'll be back in an hour."

Christine shrugged. "Maybe."

"There is no maybe about it. I want a time frame."

She glanced carelessly down at her left hand, fiddling almost threateningly with her ring. "Maybe I'll be back in an hour. Maybe three. I don't know."

"You had better decide extremely quickly."

"You'd better not tell me what to do."

She started to move cautiously past him to go down the stairs, but Erik stepped in front of her.

"I need to know where you're going to be and when you'll be back," he said in a forcibly calm voice that failed to mask a tremble of anxiety.

"Get out of my way."

"These are simple questions. I don't understand why it's so difficult to answer."

"Because you know where I am 24 hours a day. I'm here. I'll be back in a few hours."

Erik was silent a long, long moment, his jaw grit tightly, his hands trembling. "You have... two hours... but if you aren't home in exactly 120 minutes... I'm coming for you."

She crossed her arms. "Whatever. Get out of my way."

"Confirm you understand!" he snapped.

She rolled her eyes. "I do. Move."

Erik flung himself aside and sat down hard on the stairs, his fingers digging like claws into the back of his neck. He spoke through gritted teeth. "You have 119 minutes left."

Christine didn't bother hiding the smile of satisfaction on her face. "Bye."

 _"I'll be listening,"_ he snarled and stormed up the stairs.

She walked out the front door and walked briskly away, feeling a small burst of triumph. Once out of sight, for an insane second, she contemplated smashing her cell phone, but he’d know. He always knew.

Christine tried to forget and walked on.

All the houses in the neighborhood were nice. She felt acutely how small, how young she was, and how out of place she was among all those people who had their lives together. She wondered if she’d ever feel that way. A few months ago, she’d had enough money to pay rent―barely―and she’d liked her job, and had a boyfriend, and lived in a big city. But now she was a wife in a house, and that was about all she was. She felt more lost now than she had then.

As she wandered, she chanced the occasional glance into other people’s houses―always there were happy kids and men getting home from work and people a little older than her with hatchback cars and babies. Nobody seemed to be her age. They must have all been at college. She’d never been one for academia…

For one, she was terrible at math… but she was careful to return precisely 121 minutes later, and she was not disappointed.

Even as she walked up the driveway, Christine could see Erik pacing the porch like a fretful dog, phone in one hand and car keys in the other. The moment he noticed her, he stopped where he stood and casually shoved both objects out of sight into his pockets. As she came closer, he crossed his arms over his chest and she noticed the watery glare behind his mask.

Nonchalantly and with head held high, she walked right past him for the door as if he weren’t there.

“You’re late,” he growled.

“Barely.”

“What were you doing?” Erik voice trembled, though it was difficult to determine whether from anger or anxiety. Either way, he was unhappy, and she found herself unable to care.

Christine stepped into the house and Erik followed her, looming and hovering in a way that made her want to whirl around and push him away. Instead, she turned calmly to face him, raising an eyebrow and placing her hands on her hips. "What do you think I've been doing?"

"If I only wanted to think about it, I wouldn't have fucking asked you!" he snapped with unexpected volume, advancing on her, eyes gleaming and wet. His arms were curled stiffly over his midsection. “I gave you exactly two hours and you returned late! What were you doing?"

She recoiled a little, surprised. "Nothing! I wasn’t doing anything."

"For the sake of you and others, that had better be the truth..."

"I was just looking around! I’ve barely had a chance to even see outside." Exasperated, her face hardened as she stared him down. "That's all. I swear on my wedding vows."

"Swear on something you actually cherish," he hissed.

"Why should I?"

“Because I don’t trust you.”

Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “When have you trusted me? Ever?”

The question stunned him. For a moment, he stood there lost for words, before he moved to sit heavily on the stairs and fixed her with a dark, miserable glare. The tears had not completely stopped. In a rough, but softer voice, he grated, “just… don’t… do it... again, alright?”

This time, she did roll her eyes and stepped briskly past him on her way up to the second floor.

“I suppose I should have expected it…” he glowered as she passed, pressing his masked face into his hands. “You were never very good at keeping curfew, you know."

"Maybe because you're completely ridiculous in thinking you can enforce your stupid rules on me."

"Can't I?" He turned to glaring at her over his shoulder.

She watched him with a forcibly neutral look on her face. "Am I supposed to be intimidated?"

"If you aren't, go ahead and test me." His voice was soft. "We'll see who suffers more."

"Whatever," she hissed and stormed up the rest of the stairs. "I'm done with you."

After slamming the bedroom door as hard as she could, causing Edgar to regard her with shock from his perch on her dresser, she took a deep breath and counted backwards from twenty.

Even before their marriage, his relentless obsession with surveillance, with watching her, had made her feel like some sort of laboratory animal at worst or a prized pet at best. It had been stupid of her to hope marriage would make him more reasonable. If anything he seemed worse: at least she had a leash then and leaving his sight didn’t induce a nervous breakdown. Now she had a cage.

Locking the bedroom door―at least she had a lock now―she stripped off her clothes and stormed towards her bathroom for a cold shower.

It was still so frickin’ hot.

 

//

 

In September, Christine finally ran out of things to do.

She lay on the couch watching _27 Dresses_ for what felt like the hundredth time. Edgar, reclining on the top of his cat condo, observed the room serenely and she wondered if he was as bored as she was. Earlier that morning, she had finished alphabetizing the bookshelves on the far end of the media room, but now she wondered if perhaps it should be by color instead.  

As she stood to walk over, reconsidering, she heard a sound in the kitchen and got up to investigate a little too quickly for her liking. It was Erik―of course it was Erik―shoving a Hot Pocket into the microwave. Even as he thumbed the buttons, his attention remained fixed on the yellow Schirmer edition of Ysayë open in his other hand. While the microwave hummed, he leaned back against the counter, eyes moving rapidly over the page.

“Whatcha doing?” she asked, sitting at the table. Yesterday it was Paganini. Khachaturian the day before that.

She received a grunt in reply and he turned the page.

“I’m bored, Erik.”

Nothing.

“I really think I’m going crazy.”

Another grunt.

“I found the gross magazines under your bed.”

Nothing.

“My bags are packed and I’m running away with him tonight. You can’t stop me. What do you think about that?”

He glanced up and blinked. “Did you say something?”

Christine sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

Erik stared at her blankly. If he was going to say anything more, it was interrupted by the beeping of the microwave. Without a word, he fetched his Hot Pocket, opened the fridge for a can of Monster which he tucked under his arm, and then he was gone, eyes still buried in the score as if they’d never spoken.

With a sigh, Christine returned to the media room and dropped back on the couch to the film that she hadn’t bothered to pause in the first place. Almost immediately she snatched up the TV remote and put an end to it, only to find herself cycling listlessly through Erik’s seemingly infinite collection of chick flicks and sappy period dramas.

When the sound of his violin once again began to float through the house, she shut off the TV to stare at the ceiling. She rubbed at her face and tried to ignore the ache in her chest.

This had been going on for a week. She only knew he woke in early afternoon because that was when the music began. He had little interest in food, preferring to subsist on Bach preludes and fugues on the piano. Come a little past midnight, she assumed he slept because the music came to an end. Where she wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t his bedroom. If she saw him at all, it was by accident.

She didn’t miss him. Not by a long shot. It was a welcome change for him to fixate on something other than her. But to her chagrin, she was beginning to feel his absence. He’d never made a point of ignoring her like this...

Before long, she found herself drifting idly near the studio door, hoping that Erik would emerge of his own accord.

She couldn't hide from the facts anymore, standing there, listening like some scorned lover. She was lonely. Intolerably lonely. And Erik, as he was so fond of reminding her, was better than nothing.

The door was closed, though it was difficult to say whether it was from a need for privacy or a desire to not bother her. Either way, he currently played something slow, lyrical, and less demanding than his recent fare; Mendelssohn, probably.

Christine, rubbing her hands together apprehensively, paused for a moment in front of the door before she timidly knocked, taking a cautionary few steps back after she did.

The music stopped immediately. A few seconds passed before Erik opened the door and blinked down at her in blank confusion. "Am I being too loud?"

She shook her head, directing her eyes with embarrassment to the floor. "Just... came to see what you were up to."

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I can take requests, if you like," he said quietly. Then, he reached into his pocket for his phone, which wasn't there. He glanced around, looking briefly perturbed. "Or... is it dinnertime already? I can make you supper if you like."

"It's only five." She scuffed at a spot on the floor with a socked foot. "I'm not hungry, thanks."

In silence, Erik looked back to her, confusion returning to his hazel gaze. He folded his hands awkwardly at his stomach. "Is, ah... is there something else you wanted from me, then? I'm not quite..." He trailed off, frowning.

Christine blinked back tears. "Not really."

Erik opened the door further and took a hesitant step closer. "Are you alright, dear? Is something the matter?"

She shrugged, shrinking away a little. "I 'unno."

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong." His voice was suddenly low and soothing.

"I said I don't know." Now, she took an obvious step back, sniffing.

"Oh, no, please, don't cry..." he murmured, sounding almost distressed himself. He held out a hand to touch her shoulder, but at the last moment, his fingers curled back and pulled away. "Would you like to come in? We'll... figure this out."

Christine stepped forward again, silently nodding assent. She scrubbed at her eyes painfully. Crying had always felt weak. Doubly so in front of him.

He opened the door even wider and stepped aside to let her pass into the dim, muggy room that smelled strongly of violin rosin and his cologne. Though the sun hadn’t set yet, a lamp near the piano was the only source of light due to the heavy drapes obscuring all the windows. Shadows lurked in the corners.

Christine stepped gingerly inside, looking around nervously as if something might jump out at her. Out of habit, she glanced towards a corner of the room. Leaning against the wall was the locked case containing her father’s violin, which she had expressly forbidden Erik to touch. It was exactly where she had left it.

Moving ahead of her, Erik went towards the stiff leather sofa that was more decorative than comfortable and tossed aside a pillow and blanket. Then he gestured for her to sit.

She perched herself carefully on the couch, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, like she was cold. The thermostat had been sitting securely at seventy for a couple months. She sniffed again.

Erik took a seat, too, a respectful distance away, and glanced awkwardly towards her. He seemed uncertain what to say at first, then ventured hesitantly, "Might I... would you like it if I rubbed your back?"

Christine's chin wobbled and, shyly, she nodded, pulling her hair over one shoulder so it didn't get in his way.

Erik's entire demeanor relaxed at this consent. With a hand still warm from playing, he caressed her back in long, soothing strokes, first with his palm and then gently with his nails. "Bad day?"

Christine deflated a little, loosening her protective hold on herself. "Mm."

Responding, he grew more confident and began to one-handedly rub at the taut muscle of her shoulder. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"You're ignoring me," she said suddenly. Her voice was not accusatory; it was small. She didn't look up.

"I'm not ignoring you..." Erik protested softly. "I've been... preoccupied. I thought you liked me out of the way..."

"You don't let me go out. I don't have anyone to talk to." She wrapped her arms around her midsection again, eyes fixed straight ahead of her at the scores carelessly stacked on the Fazoli baby grand’s closed lid.

Erik didn't immediately respond and shifted a little on the couch so he could employ his other hand as well. "I'm sorry. I... I forget... I thought I was making you happy."

Christine turned her head to look at him. "No."

Under her gaze, Erik immediately stopped what he was doing, though he left his hands on her shoulders. "I'm sorry for neglecting you. I'm a terrible husband."

She didn't shrug him off, or dispute the claim. She stared back at her lap.

"Would... would you… Would you like a hug? Might that help?"

Christine rubbed her hands together. There was a tremor to her voice. "No, thanks. Not right now."

Erik paused, as if debating whether or not to press the issue, but he returned to simply tracing his nails over her back, and murmured instead, “If you ever need one, please let me know. I know how to do those at least..."

She closed her eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered. "We'll go out this weekend. Go somewhere nice for dinner or see if the symphony here is any good. Would you like that?"

At that, Christine seemed almost to return to her usual self. "I'd like that."

"I'm glad." And he sounded it, too. "We'll go into town more often, I promise. I don't mean to turn you into a recluse... I do that to people, I'm sorry."

She pouted, rubbing her hands together. "I'm so bored. I don't have any friends. I mean... I didn't have that many before. But now I don't have _any_."

Erik laughed quietly under his breath. "I don't really know how to make friends, I'm afraid. But... ah... I'm sure we could find you some."

She glanced at him with a slight smile. "You're not allowed to pay them."

Erik heaved an exaggerated sigh of dismay. "Not even a little?"

The smile grew. "No."

"Such exacting standards, my word," Erik teased. He might have been smiling. "Wherever can we find such upstanding people?"

"We haven't met our neighbors,"  she said quietly. "They might be nice."

"That's... true." It sounded as if this thought had genuinely not crossed his mind. "How does one normally do that anyway? Meet neighbors?"

She smiled. "Take them some cooking or something. Introduce ourselves."

"Oh, that’s out of the question," he murmured in mock horror. "We might poison them... And I do know that is how _not_ to make friends... But I see what you mean. We should do that soon, then."

She grinned. "They might have kids."

"Kids..." Suddenly the horror wasn't so fake. "Perhaps they'll need a babysitter."

"That would be amazing." She was delighted now. "Can you imagine?"

His eyes were soft, his voice warm. "Only just. Do you really like children so much?"

"I love them. I love kids." She was smiling still.

"Then let us find you some children to herd immediately," Erik said, stroking her back again. "Someone in the neighborhood must have popped a few sprogs."

She nodded, soothed. "I'd like that very much."

"I'm glad to hear it... Would you like to watch a film tonight or go for an evening stroll? We can case the neighborhood."

She found herself laughing. "Don't say it like that."

"Reconnaissance, then." He smirked. "How does that sound?"

"I don't think I ever want to watch another movie. So the walk, maybe."

"I'll cancel the Netflix subscription," he assured her solemnly, patting her back gently and getting to his feet. "Let me go powder my nose. Five minutes?"

Christine rubbed her own shoulder as if disbelieving that he'd touched her at all. "I'll get changed."

That night, they did in fact manage to run into a few neighbors. Two middle-aged women strolled by with yapping lapdogs; a couple around Erik’s age sat with three children on their patio, the parents absorbed in books and the children in a card game; a senior was mowing his lawn and bending occasionally to move a rock that was in his way. And although they exchanged little more than casual greetings and introductions, it was something. It was human contact. Things didn’t feel quite so hopeless and lonely anymore. And for now, it would do.

It had to.

 


	3. Chapter 3

In January, Christine celebrated her twenty-first birthday with their neighbors.

She’d spent a lot of the evening with the kids. They were all so darling. Katelyn, the eldest, was nine, and had her father’s brown eyes and mother’s thick mouse-brown hair, and she liked to talk. Christine liked to talk to her, too. She didn’t remind her of herself, but she was a sweet little girl in a harmless, innocent way. Edward, the middle child—not named after the vampire, swore his mother—was sweet, like Christine had always thought little boys weren’t, and he always affectionately wrapped his arms around her legs when she arrived at the Johnson’s home. He was six. The youngest, Ellie, was five, and she was a princess. Or at least believed she was.

When Christine had introduced them to Erik… well, at least it couldn’t have gotten worse.

 

_“Why’d you marry such a weirdo?”_   
  
_“I ask myself that every day, Katelyn.”_

 

Edward had wanted to be read story after story all evening, and Ellie wanted to play princesses, and Katelyn wanted to talk about boys. (At her age, Christine didn’t think she’d ever spoken to a boy for more than ten seconds.) But she wasn’t complaining.

It sort of terrified her to think of drinking with Hilary and Rob and her husband; they were all proper adults and she tended to feel inadequate, even as she suspected that they were striving to make her feel welcome. So when the kids had to be put to bed, Christine volunteered willingly—even though she caught the frustrated look Erik shot her—and managed to waste a whole hour in getting them all into their beds.

When she could no longer delay the inevitable, she descended the stairs to the main floor and turned into the kitchen where Hilary was sitting at the kitchen table sipping at a martini glass, and staring at the remains of cake and ice cream congealing on porcelain plates yet to be taken to the sink. But as Christine rejoined her, she smiled.

“Can I finally make you a cocktail?” Hilary asked pleasantly.

“Not too strong,” Christine said obligingly. Alcohol had always seemed so dangerous—there was her father’s drunken rambling, and Meg’s underage drinking when she’d lived with the Girys, and then there was Erik’s habit... But she was an adult now. Adults drank.

Hilary got up and walked into the kitchen where a selection of liquors stood on the counter. Her grey eyes glanced fleetingly, amused, over a bottle of absinthe, before she picked up the sambuca decisively and began to mix things a little too generously with coffee liqueur and half-and-half. Crap. If the alcohol didn’t make her sick, the dairy would. Her stomach sank.

“I hope the kids didn’t give you any trouble,” Hilary said.

“They never do. They’re perfect angels,” Christine replied with a smile of her own.

And she meant it—they were all so kind, even though when she’d first met the Johnsons she had gotten a markedly Stepford Wives feeling from them: the kids were sweet and courteous, and Hilary and Rob were both so well-put-together and clearly loved each other. She wasn’t jealous, but they made her sad.

Hilary, an elegant woman—much closer to Erik’s age than Christine’s—was always graceful and tactful and knew what to say. But she saw the way Hilary’s eyes widened ever so slightly when Christine first introduced her husband.

 

_“It’s an absolute pleasure, Jack, we’ve heard so much!”_

 

It was the name Erik had used in public for as long as she had known him and probably longer, from what little she knew of his distasteful past. Christine, however, refused to use it in private. Jack was her kind friend, a gentleman, and dead to her. He was only Erik to her now, plain and simple.

Hilary was affectionate as a rule, but when she met Erik she didn’t lean forward to kiss his cheek, which was probably for the best, because his false faces felt… well, fake. Instead, she extended a hand for him to shake, her other one finding Rob’s. Christine’s friendship with Hilary wasn’t exactly intimate, but she’d suspected that, for the first time, she’d seen her friend nervous. She couldn’t blame them. Erik did that to people...

“So when are you and Rob thinking of going out again?” Christine tried not to sound too hopeful as she sipped her Cafe Romano. Her stomach was already gurgling in protest, but it was delicious.

“Probably next weekend, if we can,” Hilary replied, returning to her seat with a satisfied sigh, her own glass refilled with a somewhat garish pink concoction.

“That would be really fun.” There was no need, for once, to force enthusiasm—it was already there.

“I really hate to keep putting you out like this. We’ve never had such a reliable babysitter and since the kids were born… well, it’s nice to get out more.”

“You aren’t putting me out. Honest. I don’t mind at all.” To prove this, Christine smiled and took a sip of her drink. “Really, you aren’t. I love those kids.” She hoped that she didn’t sound too desperate.

“And they’ve really taken to you. They’re always asking when you can come over.”

Christine’s face flushed. “I’m always asking my husband the same thing.”

Hilary laughed, genuinely delighted, apparently. Christine silently wished that it had been a joke. “I do hope we don’t take too much of your time together away from you!”

Here, she paused, deliberately, feigning thought. “Not at all. That big old house all to ourselves.”

“You two should work on filling it up!”  
  
“Hilary.”

“I mean it. You’d make a wonderful mom, Chrissy.” _Chrissy_. She was definitely on the wrong side of a few drinks. “You’re so good with the kids, so patient, you don’t even have to try. It’d be a waste of excellent mother material for you not to.”

Her face was bright red now, and it wasn’t the sambuca. “Eri- Jack’s really not into the idea of kids.”

Hilary blinked lazily, making Christine think of a sleepy cat, and leaned forward, conspiratorially. If she'd noticed Christine's slip up, she made no sign. “Neither was I, really. I thought there was something wrong with Rob, how bad he wanted them. When I found out I was pregnant with Katelyn—don’t get me wrong, I love my husband to death—but I think she wasn’t so much an accident as Rob being a liar...” Here, she made some crack about broken condoms that Christine blushed at and pretended to comprehend. “But I fell in love with my babies. I guess it’s different, what with the whole having them grow in your body thing. It just sort of happens. But...” She paused to take a generous gulp of her drink and give a philosophical shrug. “Your hubby loves you a lot, he’d be an idiot not to love your kids the same.”

She sipped thoughtfully at her cocktail, feeling melancholy in a way that was difficult to think about for long, before blinking and glancing around. It only just now occurred to her the room seemed wonderfully empty and that could mean only one thing. Christine frowned.

“...Where is he, anyway?” she asked quietly.

“Jack? In the den with Rob. They’re discussing very important man things, I’m sure.” Hilary gave a little wink. Christine couldn’t decide if she liked her friend more or less under the influence.

“Oh, right.” She settled hesitantly back in her seat. “Fine.”

“He’s... very quiet,” Hilary ventured.

“Who?”

“Your husband.” A giggle that was probably unbecoming for a mother of three in her thirties. Christine decided she liked Hilary a little more drunk. She relaxed.

“Oh. Yeah, he is.” Quiet. And creepy. And only socially inept around her apparently.

“How did you two meet again?”

On the Internet, in a chat room, disagreeing over Wagner and Verdi. Then, later, at her apartment. She’d been so stupid.

But the rehearsed, acceptable answers came easily to mind, in spite of the alcohol she felt beginning to take hold of her. What to say in situations such as these had been one of their first conversations as a married couple.

“Oh. I used to work as a barista, back h-” She cleared her throat. “Back in Chicago, and one day he came in, and we chatted—because I’d never met anybody who asked for three extra shots of espresso—and he liked me.”

Hilary smiled. “What’d you think of him?”

“When we met?” Her eyes softened. She had very nearly loved her faceless Internet friend, who spoke to her every night and helped her through her problems and was always there for her. Without him, she never would have had the courage to move to Chicago or apply for that barista position. And then she’d met him. She had been so, _so_ stupid. “Oh, I thought he was wonderful.”

That smile grew. “What does he do again?”

“He works in information security. He’s very good with computers.” And surveillance equipment, but that little tidbit wasn’t strictly necessary information.

“That would explain it.” She gave a cheeky grin. “I hear that’s a really good field to be in these days.”

“It is, yeah.”

Actually, she had no idea. Any time she pressed Erik for information about what he did, he deflected and evaded, to the point that she wondered if he was even telling the truth at all about the source of his income at all. International supervillainy honestly wouldn’t be all that surprising, but it would probably make tax forms hard to fill out.

“I’ve never seen a husband so devoted to his wife. You were all he talked about when you were putting the kids to bed.” Hilary sighed. “I wish Rob were even half as attentive as Jack is.”

While Christine knew it was meant as a compliment, it filled her with silent, dark laughter. She contained it and managed to mumble instead: “Yeah, he’s really something…”

They lapsed into companionable silence.

Honestly, Christine wished Erik were half as normal as Rob was, but she couldn’t say that. Rob wore polo shirts, worked at an office, and played golf. Sure, Erik cleaned up well as Jack, but sometimes he reminded her of a teenaged boy, glued to his computer, subsisting on Hot Pockets and energy drinks for days on end without even thinking of eating vegetables or changing his clothes.

She really couldn’t see him as a father at all—in fact, it was sort of terrifying to imagine—but she’d always wanted kids. That was one of the things that had so distressed her when he’d “proposed”. She’d all but said goodbye to a life that, with Raoul, or, for that matter, anybody else, had seemed so possible. So probable.

But now, with a little alcohol in her system, she could see it. Maybe. If she squinted. A lot. Having someone—someone who wasn’t a creepy, obsessed jerk sixteen years her senior—who depended upon her completely, and needed her, and would love her as she would love them, didn’t seem so bad. Maybe a little boy with her father’s nose. Or a little girl with her mother’s hair. She could care for them, and watch them grow into something really special.

It certainly wasn’t an unpleasant idea.

The men emerged from the den, Rob finishing an apparently particularly racy joke as he laughed and clapped Erik heartily on the back, whose ears were so red that they were tinged with purple. She wondered if he knew they did that. Erik escaped hastily to stand behind Christine’s chair, taking advantage of the moment to rest his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them coaxingly. She was ashamed to admit how good it felt to be touched so easily for once.

“It’s getting late, we really ought to get going,” Erik said with a smile that came remarkably easily for how hard he was blushing beneath all that silicone.

Christine nodded in agreement. The moment of imagining motherhood, wonderful though it had been, had passed. She got up, obediently, draining her glass.

“Yes, I’m sure you two have some celebrating of your own to do,” Rob said with a wink, causing Hilary to swat her husband on the arm with a quiet giggle.

“Robert!” she chided, though she gave Christine a warm, encouraging smile all the same.

Christine, too, blushed a little and rolled her eyes in a manner that could hopefully be described as good-natured to mask her discomfort while Erik merely smiled—he couldn’t get any redder if he tried. They all drifted towards the front entryway, where he helped Christine into her coat. She shoved her fists into the pockets.

“Really, it was a pleasure meeting the both of you,” Erik said. “Thank you for having us. We ought to do this again soon. Christine would enjoy that so much, wouldn’t you, dear?”

Again, he squeezed her shoulders with affection and she couldn’t help but nod. It wasn’t a lie, after all.

“Perhaps at our place next time,” Christine suggested quietly and she was shocked to hear Erik agree almost immediately.

“Yes, perhaps our place. I’ll play for you or something. Good night!”

“Drive safe!” Hilary said, leaning against Rob and waving at them from the doorstep.

 

The ride home through the cold winter slush did not take long. The Johnsons lived close enough that  Christine went there on foot, even in cold weather. She didn’t mind the fresh air or the exercise. Anything to get out of that house for as long as possible. Normally it didn’t take more than a few minutes for her to walk, but now she leaned against the passenger window of Erik’s Bentley in silence, watching the dark trees shoot by, knowing they’d be home in seconds. It was honestly stupid to drive, but Erik hated tramping through snow...

When they arrived at the house, Erik opened the front door for Christine and they both shuffled into the safe, inviting warmth of the house, where they promptly shed their coats. The front entrance hall was sterile in its tidiness, as always, as though they were living in a display home, but a few steps in there were a few vases of sad, droopy-looking sunflowers and some garishly colored birthday cards that clashed with the muted decor of the house. Edgar, lurking on the stairs, slunk down to greet Christine with a trill, bestowed Erik with an unimpressed look, then crept towards his food bowl in search of scraps that weren’t there.

"That went better than I expected,” Erik remarked cheerfully. "They seem like good people. I don’t think I’ve ever had such nice neighbors before."

"Would you really let them come over here?" she asked a little too hopefully. She hung her coat on the rack, watching him discreetly.

He shrugged his shoulders, glancing thoughtfully around as though all the reasons they shouldn't were hidden in the nooks and crannies of the front room.

"I... don't know,” he replied quietly. “Perhaps. I suppose it wouldn't be... too terrible, having them over—I haven’t entertained guests in quite some time—but only if it were only Hilary and Rob."

She sighed, deflating only a little. "What, not their kids too? Who'd babysit them?" Christine had an impressive collection of Disney movies and a huge TV at her disposal, and the thought of kids filling the media room with chatter and laughter was pretty irresistible. The house would be so much warmer with people in it.

But again, Erik shrugged his shoulders. "There isn't really a place for children here. They might touch things... or they might want to play with Edgar." His shoulders tensed as he meandered towards the kitchen. She reflected on the idiocy of those statements and crossed her arms, following him.

"Of course they'd want to play with Edgar, what's wrong with that? You... you say that like they'd break everything or something."

"Children make me nervous... What if they pulled his fur? And there is a lot of expensive equipment in the house. We'd have to lock a lot of doors." He glanced particularly towards the media room before turning back to her. She sighed inwardly. “And anyway, the whole point of the evening would be to take a break and enjoy ourselves and you’d still spend the entire time watching kids."

She raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's nothing. I just don't imagine Hilary and Rob were expecting you to mind the kids so much tonight. You were gone a long time… It's your birthday after all."

She smiled slightly. "Like a drunk 21-year-old would have been more fun for them? Besides, I wasn't 'minding' the kids, I was hanging out with them. It might shock you, but they're my friends too."

"Oh, you aren't that drunk..." Erik insisted with a faint smile and, incredibly, moved towards the liquor cabinet. As if he hadn’t had enough already. "How can you be friends with children? They aren't very good for conversation."

Her eyes narrowed good-naturedly. "Neither are you, but I'm sure Rob considers you a friend."

Erik pulled a bottle-shaped package neatly covered in gift-wrap from among his well-stocked collection, then set it on the counter. He regarded her with a distantly hopeful look. "Do you really think he does?"

She was smiling again, the blank one she used when she was telling him what he wanted to hear. "Of course. I think they liked you."

That coaxed a slightly larger smile from him and his ears flushed a little. He pushed the package towards her. "I hope so."

Christine frowned, glancing at the package with not a little suspicion. "What's this?"

"Your present," he said simply with a mischievous quirk of his eyebrow. "Whatever else would it be?"

She flushed involuntarily. "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Of course I did. What sort of husband would I be if I didn't get my wife a birthday present?"

He nudged it even closer and Christine picked it up, turning the package over in her hands.

"One who bought a house and everything in it for his wife." She glanced at him.

"Oh, necessary expenditures like those don’t even begin to count. Even I know that.”

"I don't even drink that much."

“What does that have to do with anything? Open it anyway."

Rolling her eyes with humor, Christine pulled the paper off the bottle. It was a pale yellow liquid labelled simply ‘akvavit’ on equally pale paper in early 20th-century style lettering surrounded by thin, delicate black and red designs.

“It’s ridiculous," she said, glancing up at him. "...Thank you."

He smiled genuinely and briefly met her eyes. "Traditional Scandinavian alcohol. As I understand it, in Sweden, it's typically chilled and drunk in the summer on special occasions. I thought it might amuse you."

She smiled as well. "That's very sweet. We'll have to save it for when it gets hot." She placed it gently on the counter and reached to rub his arm briefly. "Thank you."

Erik's ears flushed and he lowered his head shyly, then absently touched the place her hand had been. "You're welcome."

Christine moved and placed it back in the liquor cabinet, staying there. She paused and stopped herself from glancing at him. He’d be looking at her and she couldn’t take the thought of his eyes. Not when he wasn’t giving her what she wanted.

"You know, the kids wouldn't break anything if they came over,” she said. “It's so quiet here."

"What’s wrong with quiet?” Erik leaned against the counter, a frown forming on his face. “...You know, it sounds almost like you're more interested in inviting the kids over than their parents..."

She shrugged with forced nonchalance. "I like them."

"And that is why you tend them—at their house," Erik replied cautiously, watching her. Then, after a beat, he added pointedly: "I don't much like the idea of children here, Christine."

And she was frowning again. She turned to face him. "They wouldn't break anything."

"Do Hilary and Rob know you're so obsessed with borrowing their children?" He arched an eyebrow.

Christine rolled her eyes. "They'd come over with them. I'm just saying, it'd be a little rude to say their kids aren't welcome if we invite them over for dinner or something."

"I’m beginning to think that perhaps our social events ought to remain at their home instead after all.”

She sighed angrily. "Why are you so against having them here?"

"I'm not comfortable around children. I never have been. Though, you know, it's a little funny... There must be something in the air because just tonight Rob asked me if..." He trailed off, laughed quietly to himself, and looked away.

"If what?" She crossed her arms defensively across her chest.

"He asked me if we were considering children."

She swallowed. "And you said...?"

"That we weren't," he said, eyebrows arched in amusement, like he was relating some sort of inside joke or foregone conclusion.

Truthfully, that probably should have been the end of things. It would be easier—not to mention a lot less drama—to just forget it, to let that dream die as so many others had in the past fourteen months. Boys she had given up. Love, too. Hell, even her agency as a person apparently didn’t matter that much. But kids… kids were something else. She couldn’t do that. They were a reason to live, and although she had definitely not wanted to have children with Erik, that didn’t mean she didn’t want to have them at all. Her heart twinged at the the thought of not getting her own.

Outwardly, though, Christine only blinked. "Oh. Is that all you said? Just wondering."

"Why?"

"We need to keep our stories consistent."

Erik shrugged. "I told him I never much liked the idea of having children and that we aren't in a position to have them. The truth, in so many words."

It may, indeed, have been the truth, but she found herself in violent disagreement with it nevertheless. She was wrapping her arms around herself defensively. She felt outside of herself. Heartless. The whole concept—the whole conversation—filled her with discomfort and longing, even with the necessary technical matters of… producing kids. That part, though, she preferred to ignore.

Ew.

Masking her disgust, she shrugged back. "'Kay. I'm going to... bed. I guess."

"Is that it?" Erik blinked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing exactly what he meant.

"I... wasn't expecting such a passive response. Even Rob protested more than you have." Erik straightened up and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not complaining, mind you. Merely surprised... I'm glad we're agreed on something for once."

Not even slightly.

She tilted her head. "Really? What did he say?"

"That he was sorry to hear it. He was confused because he was certain we were..." He looked for the right phrase and when he found it, he laughed quietly to himself, ears going pink. "... _in the process_ , what with how, ah... _baby crazy_ you seem. His words, not mine."

Christine smiled, albeit a little cynically. Certain other things she would rather do before _that_ included performing dental surgery on herself, shoving bamboo splinters under her nails, and deep sea diving with no oxygen tank. Less cringe-inducing, painful, and scary.

"Hm," she said casually. "That's interesting, I guess."

"Why is that interesting? Have you been talking to them?"

Another shrug. "I dunno. I haven’t.” It unnerved her how much better she was getting at bold-faced lies. “Just is."

Erik fell silent a moment, regarding her thoughtfully with a small, almost amused smirk. "You weren't expecting us to have children... were you?"

She met his eyes cursorily, perhaps in an attempt to prove her sincerity. "No, of course not."

Just like she wasn’t expecting to spend two decades of her life as his wife. Just like she wasn’t expecting her life to be a dreadful disappointment. And yet, there she was.

Erik, apparently, did not require much convincing because he nodded, satisfied. "I thought so. I suppose we ought to have formally addressed it at some point earlier... but it never seemed necessary as I felt we both sufficiently understood that the nature of our situation is simply too prohibitive, not to mention the, ah, logistics of children in the first place, what with our agreement… Well, there was no point in bringing it up."

Christine nodded disinterestedly, giving a rather brilliantly-delivered (if she may say so herself) tired sigh. "Can I go to bed now?"

"Yes, of course. You must be tired..." he murmured, lowering his eyes. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Nope. Goodnight."

"Sleep well," he replied, then added, in a quieter voice, "I love you." And before she could even think to formulate a reply, he turned towards the media room and walked away quickly.

"No, you don't," she muttered when he was gone, turning to leave as well.

Edgar was waiting on her bed. He stretched out on the covers, yellow eyes staying on her.

She didn’t bother smiling at him.

It was true, she had realized that their little arrangement wasn’t exactly compatible with motherhood, but she hadn’t wanted to admit that it was an impossibility. And his certainty, the authority with which he crushed her dreams, made it all worse—she wanted to slap the smirk right off his face. She swatted the light switch off instead.

Edgar mewed plaintively when she flopped onto her bed and accidentally caught his tail beneath her. She gave a quiet apology and frowned to herself in the dark. Eventually she fell into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

February 6th, 2007, Theodore Daae passed away of hemopericardium from complications due to metastatic disease contracted from lung cancer.

Christine came home from school that day, unlocked the front door to their apartment, and found him lying on the kitchen floor, eyes still open. According to the doctor, around noon that day his heart filled with blood and he collapsed. That meant while she was eating lunch with her friends, laughing about stupid things, Dad had died alone.

There was a pack of cigarettes open on the kitchen counter.

Christine hadn’t left her room today. She lay on her bed staring at the wall, Edgar curled against her lap and purring as though he understood. At least someone did. The only recording in the world of her father’s complete published works played on repeat from her nightstand; a recording so rare, in fact, that she possessed the world’s only copy.

It had been a Christmas gift from Erik shortly after they’d met. One of the few genuinely positive memories she had of him, that afternoon had been the first time in six years she was able to hear her father’s voice again, so to speak. It was still the only way she could hear it now.

That element of his career was reasonably successful, at least—certainly compared to his attempts at performance—but, being the stubborn man he was, he’d never tried to hold down any other kind of job beyond what his violin could earn him. As a result, her childhood was spent in dingy apartments, clunky old cars, and sometimes 24 hour diners, but it had been the happiest time of her life. Even in retrospect, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

All too often she found herself reflecting on how different her life would be if her father were still alive. It was a seductive line of thought. She supposed she wouldn’t ever have met Erik, for one thing. Wonderful though Dad was, he had been very protective; he’d barely let her leave his sight, so she very much doubted he would have allowed her to meet her Internet friend without a chaperone, if at all. That might not have been a bad thing, in hindsight. Dad wouldn’t have hesitated to call the police when she hadn’t had the heart to. Had Dad still been alive, she probably wouldn’t have relied so heavily on Erik in the first place.

To have Dad back, she decided, it would be worth sacrificing her freedom—although, given her current situation, she had to ask herself _what freedom?_ At least his well-meaning paternal protection would be better than what she had now. And Dad had always known, despite his many flaws, the right thing to say, and the right way to say it, to make her feel better again.

But he was dead now. Buried next to her mother.

She hadn’t even gotten to properly tell him goodbye. Or that she loved him.

There was a gentle knock on the door that she almost didn’t hear over a series of joyous arpeggios. She didn’t turn down the music.

“Christine?”

She buried her puffy, wet eyes into her arms without replying. In spite of her silence, the door opened, introducing the comforting smell of fresh coffee into her room.

“I brought you lunch if you’d like it,” said Erik softly.

“Not really hungry, thanks.”

She heard him set down a plate and mug on the bedside table all the same, then collect the previous ones from that morning, which she still hadn’t touched. He stood there a moment, saying nothing while the player advanced to the next track on the CD. There was an awkward pause.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, Christine, please let me know,” he added in a low voice.

She felt herself choking on her tears again. She had nothing to say to that. No one could help, least of all him. Thankfully she did not need to order him to leave; a few seconds later, she heard the door click shut behind him as he left of his own accord. With him gone, she no longer held back her muffled sobs.

Every year on the anniversary of his death she would cry until she felt like she could never cry again. This year was no exception, but neither before nor since had she ever wished so hard for her father’s return.

Everything had gone so wrong.

 

//

 

Dad’s death notwithstanding, February was just a terrible month in general. Arguably, her least favorite time of the year.

Christine kept to herself and sought refuge in fiction, though that wasn’t strange. What was unusual, however, was the genre—they were mostly romance novels, her readings of which were interspersed with cynical scoffs and tired, disparaging looks as if the characters could actually sense her disapproval. The stories were all so contrived and neat. And worst of all, they made intimacy seem so… pleasant. Admittedly, she had tried to warm herself to the process of… _it_ —kids hadn’t left her mind for an instant—but _it_ was still too gross to think of as a real world thing that could happen.

The early evening found her relaxing in the media room with a newly brewed cup of coffee and Edgar, who was a purring, contented little bundle on her chest. The last of the romance novels lay abandoned on the coffee table. She couldn’t bring herself to finish it.

When _Titanic_ came up as a random suggestion on Erik’s media server, she turned it on without thinking. This movie—like so many others—she'd seen too many times, but it was appropriate for today at least. And it sure beat reading. She couldn't help but sigh.

Unfortunately, not long after she’d pressed play, she heard the front door open and close amid a rustle of grocery bags. Her heart sunk with irritation and her arms curled around Edgar, who licked lazily at her arm with his sandpaper tongue. Just when she’d relaxed, too…

Erik drifted into the media room a few moments later as he was inevitably bound to do and when he did, Christine glanced up disinterestedly.  

Nearly a year of marriage and she still had no idea how he built his disturbingly lifelike faces. Why he didn’t wear these at home instead of his masks was unclear, though she dimly remembered him once saying that the process irritated his skin when worn too long or too often… or something like that. Who knew if that was even true or not. She was finding it hard to care anymore. Erik did exactly as he pleased whether it made sense or not and far be it from her to comment.

He watched the television a moment, frowning with no amusement whatsoever at the Picasso joke, and made no move to join them on the couch. Instead, he bent over the armrest and from seemingly thin air, produced a shockingly large box of Belgian chocolate, which he placed on the couch cushion next to her. He backed away a couple steps, hands folded at his chest, watching her and his offering anxiously.

She continued to feign disinterest, glancing to the box, but she was lying if she told herself she wasn't salivating at the sight. At least the day had one good point.

"Happy Valentine's Day," she said cursorily, her attention returning to the screen. She personally could not think of a holiday she wanted to celebrate less with her husband. Today was a day reserved for people who actually had relationships worth recognizing.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Christine," Erik replied warmly, clearly not sharing her opinions on the subject. "Have you had dinner yet?"

She smiled. "Chocolate isn't dinner."

"Of course it is. But I can make you something more substantial if you'd like," Erik said with a half smile of his own and leaned forward to scratch Edgar affectionately on the back of the head.  This immediately prompted a deep, quiet growl from the cat, who whipped around to glare at Erik with baleful, yellow eyes. Erik immediately stepped back with a sigh and held up his hands in defeat. Christine, admirably, didn’t laugh.

He returned the cat’s glare. "You were supposed to be my cat..."

She stroked Edgar's back soothingly and he relaxed. "He is yours, he just doesn't like you. I'm not hungry."

"I wish I knew what I had done to offend him. Lucky little monster," Erik muttered, the smile gone. "Shall I make up some shots, then?"

"What's that meant to mean?" Christine asked, sitting up. "And I'm fine right now, thanks." As if drinking with him were somehow a genuinely appealing option.

"I would happily kill to be that cat," he admitted with a sigh, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ugh.

She glanced up at him. "Killing him won't turn you into him."

“The victim was non-specific. I wasn’t suggesting cat murder,” he snapped a little too quickly, then morosely eyed them both. “He's nice to have around. I like looking at him. Though I'm fairly confident your furry little boyfriend does not share the same sentiment where I’m concerned..."

She raised an eyebrow, amused. "My furry boyfriend. I like that.” She paused. “You want to sit down, don't you?”

“I'm fine. I don't need to sit.” That sounded suspiciously to her like a veiled yes.

She sighed and shifted so she was only taking up half the couch. "You're not comfortable."

Erik shrugged his shoulders and took a step back towards the kitchen. "Enjoy your chocolate and your cat. I've some drinks to mix."

She raised an eyebrow. "So the cat’s my boyfriend, the alcohol’s your girlfriend. Perfect Valentine's Day."

"The usual Valentine's Day," he replied flatly, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaving the room.

Christine glanced down at Edgar. "He's a drama queen, isn't he?" Then, sighing, she got up, cradling him in her arms, and followed Erik into the kitchen. "I was watching a movie, you know."

He was in the process of unscrewing a fresh jar of Nutella as she walked in. Nearby stood new bottles of vodka and Baileys on the counter. As she approached, he glanced at her, then turned away to procure six shot glasses from a nearby cabinet.

"And? I don't recall preventing you from watching said movie."

Yet there he was, grumping.

She frowned, sitting at the bench, and watched him commence dipping the rims of the shot glasses directly into the chocolate. "You're very good at not recalling things sometimes. Did you get soy milk?"

Without looking in her direction, he answered her question by freeing a carton of soy milk from one of the plastic bags and set it on the counter.

"I never said you had to join me. You chose to do that, if memory serves. In fact, I invited you to continue on as you were. It seems you are not very good at recalling things sometimes, either.”

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t care for being sassed. Certainly not by him. "I meant are you gonna make soy shots. If it's not too much trouble."

"If you want me to, I will," he said evenly. He set the glasses on a tray and began to generously spoon Nutella into the blender. "Why do you think I bought it in the first place? You know I don’t drink this swill."

She shrugged, though she was admittedly a little offended. "Come to think of it, I don't feel like drinking at the moment. Thanks."

"Thank you for this stunning update. You already informed me as much," Erik replied and immediately moved away to the fridge to pull out a half-empty gallon of proper milk, which he began to add into the blender.

She remembered the taste of Nutella shots from their first Valentine’s together. Few things had been good about that day, really, but _God_ if those shots weren’t one of them.

She placed Edgar on the bench and cradled her chin in her hands. When she’d only heard his voice, she’d been able to read him with ten times as much ease. Sometimes, though, he was blatant. "You're upset."

Erik shrugged his shoulders. Reckless amounts of Baileys and vodka followed the milk and after tossing in a handful of ice, he switched on the blender, temporarily halting conversation for far longer than seemed necessary. When he finally turned it off, he still refused to look at her. "So?"

She blinked, still slightly offended in a way she couldn't figure out. "So nothing."

"Then I don’t see the point of bringing attention to the fact,” he answered shortly. “I'm going to go get comfortable. May I join you in watching your film, or shall I leave you and the cat alone to canoodle?"

"You're the boss," she mumbled, scooping up Edgar with a frown and returning to the couch in the other room without another word.

  
//

 

About forty minutes later, His Royal Highness reappeared. Glancing in Christine's direction, he set the tray of shots on the coffee table then claimed the furthest end of the couch. She could smell his spicy bodywash even from there. He’d showered, and in the process had exchanged the face for the black leather housemask and a fresh application of makeup, as was his wont. She’d have to ask him for makeup advice sometime.

She smiled slightly, but didn’t look up, avoiding his eyes more out of habit than actual intention.

"I had a boyfriend-kinda-person one year who tried to tell me that grape soda was wine,” she said by way of conversation. “On Valentine's Day."

"Either he had an excellent imagination or thought poorly of your powers of observation," he replied, grabbing the first shot and tilting up the mask enough to toss it back. He self-consciously rubbed a bit of Nutella off the lip with a finger. "How old were you?"

The boy in question had been more popular than her, but had recently broken up with a girlfriend, and didn’t want to be alone on Valentine’s. He’d asked her out on the tenth of February. And broken up with her six weeks later.

"Fifteen." She glanced at him surreptitiously. "He said I had nice hair so I went out with him."

"A good enough reason, I suppose. He sounds like he was charming." He settled back against the leather and thoughtfully licked at the chocolate on the rim of the glass.

Her smile grew. "He was very charming. I liked him a lot." The only shame was that it wasn’t mutual.

If he returned her smile, it was difficult to tell. His eyes remained fixed on the television. "I imagine you did. What caused you to break up with this boyfriend-kinda-person?"

The smile fell. Of course he thought that she’d been the one to break up with the boy, rather than the other way around.

"He was..." She paused. "It was complicated."

"How so?"

She pulled her knees to her chest. Not to mention the rumors he’d spread for fun after, leaving her less popular and lonelier than before. "It just was."

Erik finally glanced in her direction and casually nudged a shot towards her. "I can understand that."

She narrowed her eyes. "I told you I didn't want to drink."

"I didn't say anything," Erik said quietly, exchanging one empty glass for a new shot. He tossed that one back too.

"You didn't need to." She frowned and picked up a shot, taking a small, cautious sip. Real milk. She gave a satisfied sigh. "Oh, this is great. Y’know, I hate drinking soy."

Erik watched her impassively. "More than being sick?"

"Not quite." She glanced at the TV where that dreadful fiancé was talking onscreen. "Do you want to watch something else?"

Erik fell silent a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. "I don't especially care for this movie, but I imagine you're tired of my Jane Austen films."

She blinked. "We don't have to watch a movie. Don't normal people spend time together?"

"We are spending time together," Erik pointed out in a low voice, finally turning to face her, slowly running his tongue over the rim of his glass. She hoped he wasn’t trying to be seductive, because it wasn’t working at all.

Christine snickered at him. "Yeah. I guess so."

"I'm perfectly content watching films with you..." he murmured, returning the glass to the tray. "Though I am, of course, open to suggestion... if you have other ideas..."

Oh, God, he _was_.

She took another tiny sip, smirking despite sudden discomfort. "Are you hitting on me?"

"It's a distinct possibility," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"And just what are you suggesting?"

Erik's gaze dropped and he shyly shrugged one shoulder. "Do you... Do you remember last year?"

Christine raised an eyebrow.

Last year, he’d taken her for a walk in the woods behind his house—like the beginning of a horror film—where they encountered a few deer, which she had never seen before in real life. But instead of him skinning her alive with a hunting knife where there was nobody to hear her scream, they returned to his basement apartment for shots and a sappy film, like a couple of bitter friends celebrating Singles’ Awareness Day. It might have been fun if she hadn’t had a perfect boyfriend sadly spending that evening alone at home instead. It also might have been fun if she hadn’t been convinced that Erik would have coped with her preference to spend the day with someone else by reenacting the Blair Witch Project in those woods with aforementioned perfect boyfriend, who, now that she thought of it, was probably with some perfect supermodel or something, right at that very moment.

Suddenly she was in a worse mood.

"I remember a lot, you're going to have to be more specific."

"Last year, you let me... we, ah..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I ought not to ask this, but in consideration of today, would it be alright if I... held your hand?"

She glanced at him tiredly. "I'm not gonna stop you, I guess."

But that did. Erik hesitated, then slouched back against the couch and stared at the remaining three shots on the table, pressing his hands between his knees. No, she wasn’t going to stop him, but that didn’t mean he got encouragement. Not when she wasn’t in the mood for teasing him.

"Perhaps I should get myself another cat."

Christine wanted to sigh again. "Why?"

"You have Edgar, and I'll have..." He trailed off and shrugged, then glanced at her. "But she isn't allowed to see you or else she'll defect like Edgar and I’ll be back where I started."

"You'll have Shererachadazade, right?" It was one of the names Erik had thrown around to name their little kitten until Edgar stuck. Scheherazade anyway.

"You can call her Sherry until that shot wears off."

She had, at some point, finished her drink. So she downed another one in a single go, challengingly. "What, was I wrong? What, S... Shredechezadahade?"

Erik chuckled under his breath. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that. One more time?"

She pouted. "You can have your stupid Shrek-Gatorade, see if I care."

Finally Erik laughed aloud, now clearly smiling as he watched her. It didn’t last long though. "Don’t worry, you won’t have to fight for my affection.” Blech. “I don't dare tempt fate bringing another cat in the house. With my luck, Edgar would maul her and it wouldn't be kind to keep her cooped in a single room..."

Christine turned her face away from him, blushing. "I'd like another cat. She'd be fine. It's just you Edgar doesn't like."

"Why do you think that is?" he asked quietly. "I've always treated him well and loved him. You saw—we got on perfectly fine the first few months..."

She glanced at him. He’d always treated her as well as he could and loved her too, but here they were. "I'm a bad person to ask that question."

"How? You're the only person he likes."

She was shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Can we please talk about something else?"

She felt like she’d failed, for some reason, and didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Erik's smile faded completely from his eyes, as if she'd overturned a bucket of cold water over his head, and he regarded her with a suddenly tired look. Then, to her surprise, he nodded passively and reached for his third shot, which he promptly gulped down. In moody silence, he stared vacantly at the screen. Leonardo DiCaprio was slowly being drowned, chained to a pipe, but Erik seemed utterly indifferent.

She glanced awkwardly at him. "Hilary and Rob were going to dinner tonight. We should sometime."

"If you like," he replied dully, not bothering to lick the Nutella this time before he set the glass down.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"How were you being rude?" he asked in that same flat tone, staring at the tray.

She shifted, glancing at him. Since when was he so relaxed? He should have been shouting. "I just... I was... um.... so, dinner sometime, huh?"

"How does tomorrow evening sound? Anniversary of the wondrous night I proposed to you,” he muttered with the same enthusiasm of scheduling a root canal.

"Yes. Of course. That sounds lovely."

He turned his head to stare at her, blinking slowly. "...Does it?"

She didn't return his gaze, allowing him to stare, and stare he did.

"Yes. It does." She was growing to hate dinner dates.

"Do you want the last one?" He nudged the final shot glass towards her.

She smiled ever so slightly. "Hitting on me and trying to get me drunk in the same night, huh?"

"It isn't Valentine's Day if I don't try to," he replied with forced cheer.

She gave a cursory huff of a laugh. "No, thank you."

In reply, he polished off the last of the alcohol, then slumped back against the couch with a loud sigh. "It's not playing fair if you're drunker than I am, though."

"I've had two shots, what are you talking about?" She crossed her arms indignantly.

"Say Sh...Sherazade again," he insisted with a wink.

She smiled a little. "Shreredezechade. Shut up."

"Lightweight."

"Only two!" she insisted, pouting in a way she hoped was adorable. She thought of children. "It's just a silly name."

"Then say..." he said slowly, shifting to rest his masked cheek against the couch. He closed his eyes and enunciated with utmost care, "Six sleek swans swam swiftly southwards."

Christine sat up, eyebrows knit with concentration. "Sssssssssssss..." She cleared her throat. "Sss... no."

Erik chuckled quietly and licked his lower lip. "Seth at Sainsbury's sells thick…” He smirked. “--Socks."

She turned slightly to face him. "How 'bout this?" She frowned. "Erik the... eeediot... is extremely ehhntoxicated." Stunned by her own wit, she was cackling.

" _Erik... der Schwachkopf... ist sehr... betrunken_... How's that?"

"Since when do you speak... German?" Probably German. He’d sometimes surprised her by telling her that he loved her in Swedish, but none of those words sounded familiar.

"One year in high school... then picked up more when I lived there. In Germany." He continued to watch her. She thought she spied a smirk.

Christine grinned genuinely. "That's awesome. Say something else."

" _Christine ist_..." Erik licked his lip again, thinking. "...S _ehr schön. Ich liebe sie_... Very hissy language, German..."

She laughed. "What's that mean?"

"Christine... is very beautiful. I love her." Erik murmured, gaze discreetly averted.

She was blushing, and even she wasn't certain whether to blame the alcohol. "I think it sounds nicer in English."

"German can be a very beautiful language, you know... if you let it," Erik insisted gently.

She nodded, grinning challengingly. "Say something beautiful then."

Erik narrowed his eyes playfully and rubbed at his chin with a long finger. After several seconds, he spoke in a carefully measured cadence. " _Ich denke dein... wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer von Meere strahlt... Ich denke dein... wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer... in Quellen malt... Ich sehe dich... wenn_...." He blinked. " _Wenn_.... Fuck, I can't remember the rest..."

Christine laughed, broken from her fascination. "Wow, charming."

"Goethe," he said, nodding solemnly. "It's a love poem."

She leaned forward to intentionally bump her forehead against his. "Pretty."

Erik pulled back instinctively, ears flushing pink. "You don't even know what it says."

She reached out to poke his ear with a fingertip, smiling. "What's it mean then, genius?"

Erik shied away again, pressing his shoulder up against his ear to protect it, tentatively returning her smile. "I think of you... when I see the sun's... shimmer gleaming from the sea... I think of you.. when the moon's glimmer is reflected in the springs... I'll get the rest for you later... it's a nice poem..."

"You look about five sometimes, you know that?"

"What do you mean...? I look about five?" He blinked, frowning.

She poked his forehead. "Like a little boy. You blush more than me."

Erik's frown grew more pronounced. "I can't help it... is that not normal?"

"It's cute," she said, biting her lip ingenuously. "Did you know that you do it?"

Now his ears went red and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't think it was a lot... Do you really think it's... cute?"

Not even slightly. But she sniggered, poking his shoulder. "Yeah."

"You're the only one who's ever called me that... cute..." Erik pressed the mask against his face with his hands, embarrassed. Then he reached out and poked her shoulder back, watching her intently. "You're cute, too..."

She was laughing. "Mm. Nah."

"Cute as a button," he insisted, poking her shoulder again. "Cuter than Edgar... and we both know he's too cute... for his own good..."

Now it was her turn to flush red. "So I'm too cute for my own good?"

"A little... you can't help that, though..."

She twisted her face, baring her teeth, arching her eyebrows, and crossing her eyes.  "I'm not cute."

That caused Erik to burst out laughing and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. "Nope, still cute, I’m afraid."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're a jerkface."

"And... you're a dorkface."

She got to her feet, playing offended. "I'm not a dork."

"Terrible case of dorkitude..." he assured her in a low voice.

She knew he wasn’t serious, and neither was she, but she felt daring.

"I'm gonna put the hurt on you in a sec," she mumbled, almost challengingly.

"I'd like to see you try...." Now he smirked.

She frowned. "I'm sure you would. I can't punch you if you're down there."

"You sure?" Erik gamely pushed himself to his feet and peered down at her. "Wouldn't it be easier for you? You're quite short, y'know..."

Pouting, Christine launched a fist squarely at his chest. He barely swayed as her knuckles thudded against his sharp, bony ribs. Recoiling quickly, she cradling her fist in the other hand. "Oww! See?! You're a jerk."

Erik rubbed at the site of impact, mouth pulled into an ambiguous line. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Imperiously, she extended her hand, bending it dramatically at the wrist. "If you have to."

Erik blinked, clearly not expecting that response, and very cautiously placed a hand under her forearm. With utmost care, he bent to kiss her knuckle, then pulled away, raking his teeth over his lower lip. "...Better?"

"Better.” Christine was frowning again. His lips were as cold as the rest of him. She remembered why she preferred not to be touched. “I've gotta be a better wife. Feed you up. So I can punch you."

"That was a punch? Oh, dearest, that was only a love tap..."

"I'll beat the snot out of you," she hissed in a voice that was far from threatening.

"I look forward to the day you can," he said, patting her on the head. Ambling around the coffee table, he turned towards the kitchen.

Christine followed, throwing her arms around his waist from behind. "I'll knock you over, man!"

Unexpectedly, Erik froze and grabbed for the wall, his other hand seizing her wrist. His breathing quickened and she felt an odd, sudden heat through his shirt. "Don't... don't do that..."

"I di'n't do anything," she grumbled, slightly embarrassed, but not letting go. To her surprise, he very gently attempted to pry her off him.

"Don't..."

"Huh?" She straightened a little to look up at him.

Erik twisted in her arms and pushed her away firmly by the shoulders. She stumbled back a step and looked up at him, genuinely confused, and a little mortified that she’d apparently done something so wrong. His eyes were to the floor.

"You should go to bed..." he muttered.

"I don't understand."

"There's nothing to understand... Go to bed." The playfulness in his voice was gone. He moved into the kitchen, making his way to the sink for a glass of water.

Christine crossed her arms. "Erik, don't lie to me."

"Go to bed," he repeated more firmly, keeping his back to her. He tilted back the mask to drink.

Offended and, now, humiliated, she blushed. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day," he mumbled in reply and refilled the glass. "Sleep well."

She hesitated, debating further confrontation. He’d never behaved like that when she touched him before. Something wasn’t right. But after staring at him, she instead turned and escaped up the stairs to her room.

As she undressed for bed, Christine felt oddly unpleasant, and almost dirty, uncertain of how to read his reaction. Had she taken the game too far? Had she hurt him? The civility between them was so tenuous as it was. Had she done something to break it? As if that were hard to do.

Whatever, it didn’t matter. She’d tried to ask questions but he shot her down. Trying to understand Erik was rarely rewarding in the first place and after drinking, he could be just as capricious as he accused her of being. Flushed with annoyance, she finally crawled under the sheets and wished she hadn’t left the chocolate downstairs.

Sleep did not come immediately to her, yet when it did, she woke repeatedly throughout the night, plagued by shapeless, feverish dreams of desiccated corpses standing in her doorway who tugged at the strings knotted in her paralyzed wrists.


	5. Chapter 5

It was in April that Christine got a call from Hilary asking her to take the kids after school for a couple hours.

“Rob’s still at work and I completely forgot I rescheduled my yoga class. I hate asking this at such short notice, but could you—”

“Seriously, don’t even worry about it, Hilary. I’ll go pick them up. I don’t mind at all.”

And really, she didn't—any excuse was a good one—so she set out immediately in the cool spring air for a leisurely walk.

The house had been quiet most of the day, what with Erik out and about. He tended to let errands build up to justify the effort of making himself presentable enough to go into public, meaning she probably still had a few hours left before he returned. Normally, she hated being alone in that empty house for so long—in horror films, bad things always happened to girls alone in big houses—but for once his absence suited her just fine.

As the sky was depressing and gray, she kept her eyes to the wet pavement. The trees on either side of the street were growing thicker with leaves every day. Everything would be full and green again soon. Maybe with the return of the sun she’d feel more alive, less constricted. The summer made her think of Chicago, and she felt dreadfully homesick. Ah, well. Only eighteen years and eleven months to go before she could return.

The bus stop was the corner where their residential street met the main road. A few cars already parked nearby, their drivers poking smartphones or staring vacantly off into the distance. She pulled her thin jacket tighter around her shoulders and leaned back against the trunk of a thick conifer. Did those parents realize how lucky they were to have kids to dote on and protect and love? Or was it all just part of the daily routine to them?

Her dad used to do this for her, sometimes—wait for her after school. When he had enough gas money, as an especial treat, he had picked her up and they’d gone out for either ice cream or hot chocolate, depending on the season… Today would have been a hot chocolate day.

She felt a drop of something cold and wet land on her face. And then another. She frowned. She was so tired of rain.

None too soon, the sound of the school bus rumbled in the distance, announcing its arrival. It soon rounded the corner and came to a shuddering halt near the curb where, with a final hiss, the doors clacked open. Young elementary-aged children filed eagerly out, scattering in all directions the second they set foot on the now glistening pavement. Christine’s expression softened as she watched them.

Children held projects and macaroni pictures in their hands and raced with almost choreographed excitement over to their parents, who gave responses that varied from matching delight to disinterested but approving nods. She watched in silence and felt invisible and empty.

She wanted one of her own so badly it physically hurt.

She couldn’t keep going on like this.

Something suddenly clamped onto her legs. She glanced down; it was Edward, staring up at her with a grin and eyes that Hilary had told her were just like Rob’s.

“Hi, Chrissy.”

“Hey, Eddy!” She grinned and pushed his long dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. He was smiling with painful sweetness up at her.

“Are you gonna play with us?”

“For a while. Mommy forgot she had yoga tonight.”

Edward made a face of slight disgust. “Yoga is stupid.”

“Yeah, but you get to hang out with me!”

It melted into a darling smile. “Yeah!”

Katelyn wasn’t far behind her brother. She hadn’t made it a few feet from the bus before a young blonde boy with a gap-toothed grin waved at her, scampering off towards one of the waiting vans parked off the side of the road. Christine watched with interest.

“See ya, Katie!” he called over his shoulder in a squeaky young voice and Katelyn smiled shyly in reply and waved back. Her cheeks were pink. Christine grinned mischievously when Katelyn turned to face her.

“Who was that, _Katie?_ ”

Her face turned red. Edward sniggered. “Nobody. Just my friend Josh.”

“I just had a friend once, too,” Christine replied with  wink.

“His name musta been Jack!” Katelyn retorted, and Christine felt an immense weight on her heart suddenly. Katelyn was frowning. “Where’s Mom?” she asked.

“Yoga.”

“Lame.”

A few minutes late, the bus of kindergarteners finally made an appearance and once Ellie spied her siblings, she soon came dashing towards them, pink plastic backpack bouncing and clinking behind her.

“We’re hanging out with Chrissy today,” said Ellie’s older sister, offering her hand, which Ellie took eagerly with a gap-toothed smile. “Mommy’s busy.”

Christine had to pause for a moment to stifle how much she loved those kids in that moment. They weren’t hers, and she didn’t want them to be, but their innocence was almost tangible, and they were always so good to each other. She thought of her father, she thought of how her mother had died in childbirth, how she missed out on having a sibling, and she wanted to weep.

“Alright, guys, we better go! Don’t wanna get soaked, do we?” Her voice sounded much brighter than she felt.

She rounded them up and off they went, Christine surrounded by a heated conversation of what games took precedence when they got home: Ellie wanted help in playing Barbies, Edward wanted Legos, and Katelyn made some half-hearted remark about homework before she suggested Mario Kart, to which the others vehemently agreed.

When the Johnsons’ house came into view, Christine hesitated. Last chance. She could still turn back. But smiled to herself and continued walking on up the street. This oversight did not escape Katelyn’s notice.

“Um, home is that way,” she said, pointing helpfully in the proper direction.

Christine’s smile grew wider. “I thought we’d go to my house this time.”

This elicited a few sounds of excitement and dismay. No Mario Kart to be had at a grown-up house.

“Wait,” said Edward, clearly confused. “We get to go to your house?  Aw right, yeah! I wanna see Edgar!”

“I don’t know what your house _even looks like!_ ” This from Ellie, who sounded aghast.

“Well I’m going to show you, silly billy.” Her smile couldn’t be contained, now. There’d be laughter and children and someone other than Erik in the house for once.

A car engine growled somewhere behind them and Christine instinctively glanced over her shoulder, heart pounding furiously. To her relief, it wasn’t Erik’s gun metal Bentley rolling up the street, just a neighbor’s BMW, who sped past them.

She released a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

No sign of him yet.

Good.

 

//

 

It was everything Erik had feared. They touched things and broke Christine's favourite mug and left handprints on the appliances in the kitchen. But in spite of that, she'd had a wonderful time with them. There had been snacks in the kitchen, then laughing and giggling and running up and down the empty halls. There had been a brief moment of panic when Christine had found Ellie in the music room—not only did she know how defensive Erik was of his space, but her father’s violin was in there, and darling though those kids were, she could have just lain down and died had anything happened to it. But when she coaxed Ellie out, everything seemed untouched. Phew.

Edgar hadn’t much cared for their company until they all settled down to watch a movie in Christine’s room, where he finally allowed himself to be seduced by a feather toy for Ellie’s amusement.

Again, she was struck by an intense wave of contentment. It felt right to share things with little ones whom she loved and who loved her—or at least she thought they probably did. They gave her a fierce joy and a feeling of belonging that Erik never would, no matter what needs he met and kindnesses he gave her to make up for all his cruelties. He wouldn’t need her like a child would (despite his unbearable childishness at times), and she would never love him like she could love one of her own. Another nineteen loveless years were inconceivable. For the moment, at least, she could enjoy her Johnson kids while she had them.

But all too soon, there was a knock at the front door. It was Hilary, effusive with thanks and appreciation, come to collect her family. She had a yoga mat slung over one shoulder and a tired grin on her face. She kissed Christine affectionately on the cheek and ushered the kids out the door, after they’d all hugged her.

Christine was alone once more. She retreated to the kitchen with a quiet sigh, taking a seat at the bench, and opening her book. Some coffee might be nice.

The ache was back. It was so silent.

Christine had just about finished the chapter when Erik returned home, laden with grocery bags. He hummed quietly to himself as he headed towards the kitchen, smiling when he saw Christine, and set his burden on the counter.

"They had some new lactose-free cheese at the store and I picked some up if you'd like to try it," he said warmly by way of greeting. He pulled it from a bag to show her, but she didn’t look up from her book.

“Thanks, kiddo,” she said and fiddled with a strand of hair.

His mood undiminished, Erik pulled a collection of perishable items from his haul and turned away towards the fridge to put them away. As his fingers touched the handle, though, he stopped short. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him glance furtively about the room, standing incredibly still as if listening for something beyond hearing. Christine held her breath. After a moment, he carefully placed the groceries inside, then leaned back against the door to watch her intently. She could feel his eyes on her. Her heart raced.

"How was your afternoon, darling?” he asked with the slightest tremble to his voice. “Quiet? Lonely? Boring?"

Christine finally glanced up at him. "It was fine... why?" She knew her face was red. She had had to work hard recently to become a better liar.

Erik was forcing himself to take slow, deep, measured breaths. "Oh, no reason... No reason at all... Simply curious because, ah... well, if I didn't know better, Christine, I'd say you..."

Without warning, he walked briskly from the kitchen, without bothering to finish the sentence.

Christine didn't get up. Instead, she dog-eared her page, closed her book, and sighed.  

Deathly silence followed for several long moments. He surely didn’t know exactly what had happened, but that he knew something had happened at all was the problem. He would be jealous or he would be suspicious or—

He suddenly materialized on the kitchen’s threshold, face set tight with rage, eyes blazing. His breathing was noticeably irregular and his hands gripped the sides of the door. Crap.

"Who the hell... has been in my studio?" he growled slowly in a low, trembling tone. "Who _the fuck_ did you let into the house?!"

Play it cool, she told herself, and rolled her eyes. "The kids had to come over for a couple hours. I hadn't had time to clean up."

“Excuse me?”

“I said the kids came over for a couple hours,” she repeated slowly, intentionally staying at the same volume. “I haven’t had time to clean up.”

"Why were they here?" He advanced quickly on her, seizing the edge of the counter with such force as if to deliberately make her flinch. But she didn’t. Instead, a sigh. Her heart hammered.

"Their parents were busy…” Christine explained. “I don't have a key to their place."

"Oh, don't you fucking sigh at me!” he snapped, voice on the rise and verging on hysterical. “There are crumbs in the studio! _Crumbs_ in the studio and _handprints_ on the door! Why were they in that room, Christine? Why were they _eating_ in that room? That room of all rooms?! They could have _ruined everything_! Were you even watching them? I told you I didn't want those fucking little shits in the house and you did it anyway and now who knows what else has happened while I was gone! I will put a fucking lock on every fucking door in this house if I have to…! Just you see if I don’t!"

"Don't speak about them that way.” Even if she said so herself, she had staying calm at his rage down to a fine art these days. “Ellie went wandering when I told her not to. I got her out as soon as I saw her in there. Calm down."

"No! I will not! Do you know how much damage they could have caused?” He whirled away from her and threw his arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight. Damned drama queen. Anger swelled in her. “I do not like anyone—anyone at all—rooting through my fucking personal belongings in my absence. Do not—I repeat—do not let anyone into this house again without my permission, do you understand?” She couldn’t help but remember how he’d stressed that it was her house too on the day they moved in. “And if I find out that you brought those kids back here again... If I find out…” He turned back to look at her, eyes flashing. “There is absolutely nothing stopping me from moving us somewhere else. You will never see them again. Do you understand me, Christine? You will never see them again because _you will be gone_."

At that, Christine was shocked, as if he'd slapped her as hard as he could. She deflated like a balloon. "Please don't say that, Erik. That's cruel."

"I do not make idle threats! Confirm you understand!"

Her eyebrows furrowed. "No. You're overreacting. You're being mean." She stared down at her hands.

"Overreacting? A home is meant to feel secure and you violated that by bringing uncontrollable children into it! I told you they would touch things! Your father's violin is in that room, Christine! What if she'd damaged it? There are delicate instruments in there worth hundreds of thousands of dollars and now... now there are _fingerprints everywhere!_ Absolutely _everywhere!_ "

"If she'd damaged it, you'd have fixed it. Will you relax? Having other people in the house is what normal people do." She took a breath, forcing herself not to glare at him. If she could explain, if she could make him understand—if he stopped shouting for ten seconds and _listened._ "They aren't _uncontrollable._ She got away for two minutes, and they spent the rest of the time in here or watching TV in my room. Relax."

"Oh, so you can’t abide Erik touching that violin, yet the idea of some little brat breaking it doesn't remotely upset you? —Nevermind, don't answer that," he spat. "You disobeyed me. If they cannot be tended in their own home, then you will tell Hilary that she needs to find a new sitter. _No children in the house!_ Do you understand me?”

She shrank. The joy in her chest at the kids’ excitement a few hours ago suddenly seemed a lifetime away. "Please don't make me give them up."

"You tend them at their house or not at all. I don't want anything to do with them. Do you understand?" He was calming a little, his words becoming increasingly monotone and cold. He didn’t seem to be listening to her. What a surprise. "If I find you brought them here again... if I catch you bringing them here again... then I cannot be held responsible _for what happens_. This isn't the only house I own... and there is nothing keeping us here."

Christine couldn't help pouting. Sometimes that worked. "That's what you said in Chicago. Don't you want to settle down and stop moving? At all?"

He fixed her with a glare. "It doesn't matter if I do or not, Christine. If we have to move... then we will."

"I love those kids. Normal people have other people in their houses. Don't make me leave over something that petty."

"Why are you so obsessed?"

"Obsessed?” She had to fight back the smirk there. Look who was talking. “I brought them here once, you a- jerk."

"Allegedly." His glare intensified.

"What are you trying to say?"

"That perhaps this isn't the first time you've done this. Perhaps there have been other instances..."

She groaned. "Seriously? No. You're being paranoid." If the happiness wasn’t still in her, she’d have told herself then that it wasn’t worth the trouble.

"If I can't trust you, then I have every reason to be."

Christine rolled her eyes, standing to cross her arms a little more intimidatingly. "This was the first time."

"I will be verifying that claim."

At this, her mouth opened in shock. "Oh- Oh? How will you be doing that?"

Erik gave a thin, humorless smile. "I think you've known me long enough to know exactly how I will be doing that."

Christine took an involuntary gasp, but recovered and viciously narrowed her eyes. "You told me the cameras were just outside."

"They are. I monitor every access point to this house... And I find that is sufficient... _for now._ "

"Fine. You can check now if you want."

"Other things take precedence." He glanced about the kitchen, jaw clenching again. Christine got the feeling his nostrils should have flared, too, but his faces had yet to achieve that degree of minute animation.

Christine sighed. "You're still overreacting. Are you allergic to kids or something?"

"I've never gotten on well with them, no." He didn’t understand. Of course not.

"They didn't do anything. Kids are harmless."

"I'll determine that, thank you." She wanted to punch him.

Christine took in a breath, increasingly tense. "They haven't touched anything. Can't you- never mind."

He raised both eyebrows. "Can't I what?"

No, he didn’t understand. She doubted he ever would. She felt colder and more distant to him than she had in a long time. He was allowed to manipulate her into making his sick fantasies come true, but God forbid she want something that everyone was supposed to want.

"Nothing," she hissed. "I know what the answer is anyway."

"Try me."

Christine took a deep breath, then released it slowly. It was like talking to a temperamental, grumpy brick wall. "Can't you let me have this one thing? You have all you want. I don't."

"You do have this one thing.” So convinced. “I have never once complained about all the time you spend at the Johnsons'. In fact, I think it's good for you. There, yes, I said it.” Was she supposed to congratulate him? “I think it’s good for you, as much as it annoys me. But all I ask is that you don't bring them here. I don't understand how this is so complicated." His eyes narrowed briefly.

"You pretend all you want. You get to have twenty years to pretend. Now I've had two hours, and—" She stopped herself, clapping a hand over her mouth. He wasn’t supposed to be quite that aware. Not for the moment, anyway.

"...And _what?_ " Erik demanded with a slight curl of his lip.

"I don't know what I'm saying. Don't listen to me."

"No, do go on. I find this extremely fascinating. Husbands are supposed to listen to their wives and so this is me listening to mine."

Now Christine looked down self-consciously. "And husbands listen when their wives tell them they _don't want to talk about this._ "

"How funny, considering you brought it up," he sneered and walked away from her. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and snatched up a few bottles of cleaning fluid. "I have nineteen years to pretend—thank you—and I intend to make the most of them."

She watched him moodily. "Then why can't I?"

"You can. Just not in the house."

"It's not the same," she mumbled, tears budding in her eyes as she sat back at the bench.

Erik watched her with expressionless eyes before grabbing a roll of paper towels and setting to polishing the chrome front of the fridge.

"No, it isn't," he replied flatly, "but I expect it's very similar to me imagining my wife loves me. No game of pretend is perfect. The mind must make up the difference."

She wiped her eyes with a sleeve. "Your wife lives with you."

"While avoiding spending more time with her husband than she actually has to." Erik grumbled to himself as he found another handprint.

She glanced up at him. "So we'll have to start having date night."

Something twisted and sick and proud was blooming in her chest.

Erik stopped what he was doing and warily looked towards her, eyes blank. "Do you really mean that?"

She pursed her lips with satisfaction. "Like a trade."

Indecision appeared, evolving quickly into torment. He suddenly frowned and went back to cleaning a little too enthusiastically. "Thank you, but no thank you. I have a vivid imagination."

Christine narrowed her eyes and got to her feet. She approached Erik from behind and placed her hands on his shoulders decisively. They tensed immediately and he stopped breathing. Good.

"It'd be fun," she cooed.

"I'm certain it could be," he mumbled.

Christine bent down and pressed her cheek to his. With his face on, he surely could not feel the sensation directly, but enough of her leaned against his back and that, she knew, he could not ignore.

"We'll never know if we don't try."

"I- it's... I need..." he stammered.

Her hands slid around his shoulders, embracing him. "You need what?" Her upper lip was curled with what was almost revulsion, but what he couldn’t see couldn’t hurt him.

Erik made a soft sound in the back of his throat and his head drooped back against her shoulder. He didn't answer; for a moment, he seemed to forget she had asked him a question at all or couldn't remember the answer. She could feel him shivering. Then, belatedly, he mumbled, "Peace of mind... I can't trade... not even for... No, I'm- I'm content with how things are..." He made an unconvincing attempt to pull away.

She grinned, pressing her mouth against his shoulder. "Are you?"

Erik swallowed another odd sound. This time, he tried to shy away with more determination, but Christine wouldn’t let him.

"Y-yes, it's... it's... enough for me.. promise.."

She huffed out a breath slowly against his bare neck. She’d tried her hand at the violin before, but Erik was about a hundred times easier to play. "You sure?"

Startled, Erik swore audibly; she saw goosebumps rise in his skin. "Nnnn... no more… please."

She wanted to rant at him. She wanted to show him what pain was.

So she waited a moment before pulling away. Almost immediately, he fell weakly against the fridge as if drawn to the cold surface and he began to rub furiously at the back of his neck. She returned to her seat and crossing her arms comfortably.

"I don't think that's fair,” she muttered. “I’m just trying to make you happy.”

"Let me think about it..." He glanced over his shoulder at her with vacant eyes.

She raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna give me what I want, Erik. Do you understand me?"

"I said I would think about it, dear.”

She smiled back pleasantly. "Yes, I heard. And I told you: you're going to give me what I want."

Suddenly, Erik got unsteadily to his feet, cradling his supplies in his arms against his chest.

"Will you put away the groceries? I need to work on the other room," he remarked suddenly, as if she hadn't said anything at all.

Her eyes narrowed, the smile fading away. It wasn’t quite anger that made her want to resist him. And perhaps she sounded like a naughty child for saying it, but she felt powerful nevertheless: "No."

"Oh, well, I’ll finish that later, then..." he sighed, surprisingly submissive, all the while beginning to slink from the kitchen. She stared at him as he did so, prompting him to frown and cringe away. "Please, I can't do this, Christine. Not right now."

She left her seat again to block his path. "Why's that, dear?"

"I can't think right now, I need to set everything to order first..." he mumbled, rubbing a hand against his face, staring at the hardwood floor of their kitchen.

She tilted her head, seeking his eyes. "Are you lying to me?"

He met her gaze for two whole seconds before attempting to step around her. "No. I have to look over the house. I won't be able to think or do anything else until it's done. Please."

"They were only in my room. There's nothing else, I checked."

"It's important I do this. Please."

Christine rolled her eyes and stepped aside, crossing her arms over her chest. "Fine. But don't think I'm done with you."

His deference melted away in an instant. Erik scowled and narrowed his eyes in her direction, then hurried off quickly up the hallway in a way that looked very satisfyingly like a retreat.

 

//

 

She let him clean. She let him clean all evening, and he vacuumed, scrubbed, and filled the house with the smell of bleach. As for herself, Christine withdrew to her bedroom to read on the chaise lounge in front of her window; but after reading the same page three times and unable to recall anything, she watched the sun setting on the ocean instead. Come dinnertime, a text reached her phone: a polite inquiry after her appetite. Food didn’t sound even remotely appealing, but she deigned to join him in the dining room anyway.

Her teeth hurt from clenching her jaw. She wasn’t done with him.

When she arrived downstairs, a plate of enchiladas had been set out for her at the dinner table in her usual place. Erik sat opposite her in his, squinting at his tablet and sipping at a glass of wine. As was typical, he hadn’t bothered to make a plate for himself, preferring to sit and observe instead, like a vampire supervising the nutrition of a favorite blood doll or something like that.

Wordlessly, she took her seat and began to pick at her food.

“Feeling better?” she asked after a moment, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look at her, absently rubbing the edge of the mask with a finger. “Yes, thank you.”

“So are you going to survive or is everything ruined forever?”

“Very funny.”

Christine watched him from the corner of her eye. If she saw any more of him than that, she was sure she would explode. Or change her mind and run away.

Thirteen months. They’d only been married thirteen months and it felt like an eternity. Thirteen months of being unable to receive visitors in her own home, locked up like some vestal virgin in an empty temple, with two hundred and twenty-eight more months to go. If she couldn’t even bring home company, if she couldn’t play with another woman’s children and pretend they were her own without hastening the apocalypse…

She would not keep living like this. If she was going to stay here in this house, something had to be done or she would crawl screaming up the walls.

And what that something needed to be was terrible, something that made her stomach clench.

“Is dinner not to your liking?” Erik asked, now looking at her. He set his tablet aside and sipped at his wine.

“I’m not super hungry,” she said, with a noncommittal shrug. Her stomach was lurching again, and even if it weren’t, the food wasn’t exactly award-winning stuff. Nothing made with soy-cheese will ever win a Michelin star.

If she didn’t want to be alone anymore, she had one last recourse, even if it _still_ didn’t feel like a real life thing that could actually happen.

When she had finished, or, at least, pushed things around enough to make it look like she’d actually eaten, she pushed her plate away, and Erik immediately rose to his feet to take it to the kitchen.

You’re gonna give me what I want, she had said.

"Going to bed?" She sniffed nonchalantly.

"Doubtfully. Why?"

Christine blinked innocently. "I thought we could watch a movie."

Erik's mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Like a date night,” she pressed.

Suspicion and confusion read in his eyes from behind his dark mask. “I thought I was clear in saying I’m not interested in your trade.”  

“Forget about the trade. How about just date night, so you can stop complaining that I avoid you.”

He hesitated. "Do you really want to?"

Now she smiled. "Yeah. I'll even let you pick."

Erik's expression relaxed. "I'll be happy to watch whatever you like.”

"Please choose. If I ever have to pick another movie for myself I'm gonna scream." Christine's smile hopefully seemed genuine.

He chuckled. “Let me put up these dishes and I’ll meet you in the media room.”

They parted ways and Christine meandered her way towards the room in question, pulse quickening. She took her spot on the couch, resting her chin in her hands, listening to him clink about in the kitchen.

She had no doubt of her ability to manipulate him—he made it so easy sometimes—but how to approach it…? It couldn’t be an open invitation, because if he enjoyed it, he would want more, like he had during more innocent times prior to their marriage, when she’d placated him by cuddling with him on the couch. Platonic as it was, that had quickly become his favorite activity, much to her chagrin. She couldn’t risk that happening again, not with this.

So it needed to be as unpleasant for him as it was for her.

 

 

 

_“Someday you’ll see things my way, Christine. There are ways to make anyone do anything... especially your boy.”_

_“You stay away from him.”_

_“You know that’s beyond my power. If he continues to behave the way he does, I have no choice. Otherwise he won’t learn.”_

_“He’s not a dog, Erik!”_

_“Isn’t he? Oh, don’t look at me like that, Christine. Humans are not so very different from animals, you know. I’ve found they can be trained like any other intelligent creature on this Earth to do whatever you like through positive or negative reinforcement… I can make anyone do anything I want. Just you see.”_

 

 

Erik appeared several moments later, returning his wedding ring to his finger with hands warm and red from washing dishes. He eyed her with a cautious smile as he passed by, then took a seat a few feet away on the couch while he switched the television on. Paging through the listing on the media server, he asked softly: "Do you... are you quite sick of Jane Eyre? We don’t have to watch the whole thing.”

She smiled, making room and patting the cushion next to her. "I don't mind if we watch all of it."

Erik's breathing caught in his throat, suddenly looking as bashful and incredulous as he had during the first months after they had met each other. He carefully relocated next to her, but still mindful they didn't touch. His ears had gone pink. He cued up the film and set the remote aside, pressing his hands between his knees.

Christine glanced in his direction and caught him looking shyly in her direction, whereupon he hastily looked back towards the screen. She watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing appraisingly.

Even the memory of lying against his cold, bony body filled her with revulsion. Like a breathing corpse.

She shifted a little closer. "Rochester is pretty in this one."

"He's not supposed to be pretty," Erik remarked, pressing his knees tighter together. "He's supposed to be ugly, but they never quite get that right in film adaptations..."

She frowned, looking up at him with a humorous glint in her eyes. "How ugly is he meant to be?"

"Enough that his wealth is the only reason Blanche considers marrying him. Then, of course, his appearance improves after half a burning house falls on him..."

"Maybe he's just an ass and it isn't Blanche's fault." She grinned blithely.

"Oh, he's an ill-tempered ass, no question." He carefully stretched out his arms over the back edge of the couch. Her grin elicited a timid smirk from him. "It's a wonder Jane sees anything in him at all."

"Jane's just desperate."

"I will not hear such talk about poor Jane." He sounded playfully affronted. "She is a strong independent woman who needs no man."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is she? She's ugly too, though.” Christine glanced at him, gauging his reaction. “Sounds desperate to me.”

“She's not ugly, she's plain—there's a difference.” Erik’s eyes narrowed every so slightly. "She has a strong sense of self-worth. She's more than Rochester deserved, anyway.."

"That's not saying much. Rochester doesn't seem to deserve anything." Her tone sounded almost malicious now, still smiling.

"He isn’t entirely devoid of good qualities.” Erik was frowning. “He takes in a former lover's child because she claims he's the father when he knows he isn't. And he looks after his mad wife instead of... getting rid of her or letting her die, even though she tries to kill him...."

“Not getting rid of her isn’t the mark of a good person. That’s the mark of not-a-sociopath. I don't think he deserves congratulations for that."

"Doesn’t he? She’s the reason he can’t live a full life. No one would have blamed him if he had let her die... As if keeping her locked up in an attic is any quality of life."

“You managed to get something right for once," she said, smirk as big as ever.

"Are you legitimately attempting to compare your life to Bertha's?" Erik asked, incredulous. He suddenly shifted away from her, eyes dull.

"Are you legitimately trying to compare yourself to Jane Eyre? That's a flattering comparison, you know." Her eyes narrowed. "Not very fair on her."

Erik stared at her. "I never said I was."

" _I_ never said _I_ was." She shook her head back mockingly. It was the truth.

"Good," he suddenly snapped, reaching for the remote and switching off the television. He got to his feet and stalked into the kitchen. "I ought to have picked something else."

She followed. "What's the matter? Is someone grumpy?"

Erik said nothing, moving predictably towards the liquor cabinet. He snatched up a nearly-empty bottle of rum and a shot glass.

"Aww, did I upset you?" She was laughing again, poking him in the arm.

He jerked away and growled. "Don't touch me.”

Her relaxation grew. For some reason, it all seemed easier when he was angry. It was simpler to forget that he was human. "Or what, you'll shout at me?"

He glared at her in silence and began to stalk towards the stairs.

"Or are you going to ignore me now?" She followed him eagerly. "At least tell me first, so I know."

"I think you'll readily discern," he muttered, turning towards his bedroom.

"So you are? You really care about that stupid movie a lot, huh?" She didn't seem dissuaded at all, voice still bright.

Erik turned in the doorway to glare at her. "It's also a book, too. And about as much as you care for that stupid band."

"That band isn't stupid though," she said, grinning. "And it's pronounced Mumford & Sons, actually, thanks."

"Oh, except it isn't a band anymore, I forgot. They broke up and even the frontman despises their music."

Her smile fell a little. "So? Am I meant to be offended?"

"Not at all. You've never been ashamed of your questionable taste in music. I see no reason to start now.”

The smile disappeared. "You're such an elitist ass. You know that? How does anyone put up with you?" She paused, a look of false comprehension dawning on her face. "Oh, wait, that's right..."

"If you want to insult me, you're going to have to try harder than that.”

"I'm not insulting you, I'm telling the truth." She glared up at him, stepping into his personal space aggressively.

It was their well-rehearsed dance. He took a step back, crossing over the threshold of his bedroom. As if gathering strength from his sanctuary, he drew himself up to his full height.

"What, like it’s supposed to hurt?" he sneered and she smirked at this, because she knew it did.

She edged into the doorway to prevent him from closing it. "Well, it does, doesn't it?"

"Not when it comes from you," he snapped, setting the bottle and glass down on his nightstand and regarding her with a flash of annoyance.

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Why's that?"

"Because you're doing your level best to irritate me and there's nothing you can throw at me that I haven't already accepted.”

"Why would I be trying to irritate you?"

"I'm certain you have a hundred reasons. Pick one."

Her smile was returning. "Well, you better tell me what the choices are first."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Oh, let's see. You're married to me, you hate me, revenge... pick one."

"Annoying you wouldn't make for very good revenge," she said, leaning on the doorframe and counted the reasons off on her fingers. "'I'm married to you' is getting kinda old too... and you'd get real grumpy if I said I hated you."

"Are you finished?"

"Finished with what?"

"Standing in my doorway."

She glanced about, eventually nodding. "Yeah, think so."

She stood to her proper height and, feeling like a gleefully naughty child, walked straight into his bedroom. It was the first time she had actually been inside, now that she thought about it.

In surprise, Erik stumbled back a few steps and pressed himself back against the wall, watching her with open displeasure.

Much like the rest of the house, his room was decorated in dark, austere colors and it contained only a few essential pieces of furniture. On the dresser was a digital picture frame displaying an image of her unsmiling in her wedding dress, standing outside the cathedral. Little had changed since the day they moved in, though the door, she noticed, was removed from the walk-in closet.  

"That window's so small,” she remarked casually.

"It's enough for me."

Christine shrugged, walking almost threateningly over to inspect the nightstand. Delight filled her. "Not much of a view."

Erik tensed, shifting towards the door. "I don't need a view."

"Where you going?" She raised an eyebrow at him and he immediately leaned back against the wall as if pinned.

"Look, are you quite satisfied? There's nothing interesting here."

She shrugged, sitting naturally as anything on his bed. "I didn't think there was. Why, you have an issue with me being in here? It's my house too, y'know." She accentuated this statement with a raised eyebrow.

"It isn't proper for—" he began automatically before faltering. He folded his hands over his stomach, shoulders hunching. "I'm... it just... it feels wrong, Christine. I'm certain you don't care for me being in your bedroom, either."

"It isn't proper for a _lady_ to be in her _husband's_ room? Yeah okay." She rolled her eyes, flopping down on her back into the insidiously soft, king-sized cloud that was his bed. It was the sort of bed that made a person want to crawl in and never leave, a sea of memory foam and down comforters, and frankly the only remotely tempting thing about spending the night with him. It was therefore only appropriate that she stretched invitingly, arching her back, before rolling to her stomach to look up at him accusingly. She felt rather like a cat. "You see a lady anywhere, dude? I don't."

"I was going to say it isn't proper for a woman to be in a man's bedroom, nor would it be proper for a man to be in a woman's bedroom," he muttered, looking to the ceiling and taking a slow breath. "Marriage doesn't change that."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Uhh, it sort of does."

"Let me rephrase. _Our_ marriage doesn't change that." He closed his eyes and let his head rest back against the wall. His exposed skin flushed red. “If anything, our marriage makes it imperative...”

"Maybe I like this bed," she said quietly, glancing over at him with a smarmy grin.

"Do you want it? I'll find another."

She snorted. "That's fine, bud, thank you."

Erik watched her with a guarded expression. "I'll sleep elsewhere if you like."

Christine gave him a wink. "Nah."

"Can you please leave, now? I’d like to sleep," he asked softly.

Her face may have looked malicious. Or it may have been the light. Even she wasn’t entirely sure which. "There's more than one bed in this house."

Erik glanced furtively in the direction of Christine’s room across the hall, then back to her. "Are you really going to sleep in here?"

"I'll sleep wherever I damn well please."

"Of course you can," Erik said, sighing quietly. He crept towards the nightstand to collect his liquor. "I'll see you in the morning, then."

She smiled. "Where're you going?"

"I don't know.”

Christine rolled her eyes, pulling herself to her feet. She strolled past him with the grin back on her face. "Fine, take your stupid bed."

Erik stared at her, slack-jawed. Then he blinked, shoved his knuckles against his eyes, and sighed loudly in aggravation.

"Are all women like you?" he demanded suddenly.

She laughed. "Don't think so. It'd be better to go find another one."

Erik laughed, too, but it was hollow and without emotion. "The devil you know..."

She stopped again in the doorway, watching him critically. Her pulse quickened. "...Is gonna kill you one day."

And right now, _that_ at least felt like a real life thing that could actually happen.

But at this prospect, Erik shrugged carelessly, then uncorked the rum to gulp down a mouthful. He regarded her with blank eyes and spoke with an equally blank voice, but beyond the edge of the mask, she saw a smile. "There are worse things."

Her blood suddenly ran cold, shrivelling her courage. Nineteen more years.

“Goodnight,” she murmured and turned away to cross the hall into her bedroom.

"Goodnight, dear.”

The moment she was behind the door, she quickly closed it and dropped face-first onto her bed. Edgar, dislodged from his pillow throne, meowed in displeasure. She reached out blindly to console him, and he was soon settled again, purring indulgently. Before long, calm washed through her leaving resolution where horror had been.  

A few hours later, as she dozed off, she thought she could hear the haunting progressions of Ravel’s _Pavane for a Dead Princess_ drifting up from the piano downstairs and in the dark it dawned on her.

It needed to be an accident.


	6. Chapter 6

In July, she finally felt ready.

Christine knew he was drunk before she could see or smell him. It wasn’t unusual for Erik to play for himself at some point during the day—she was accustomed to hearing distant music at any given hour of the day—but when he drank alone, it was a guaranteed certainty she would find him at the piano before long. Over the time she’d known him, Christine had become an expert at calculating Erik’s blood alcohol level by ear alone.  

Lovesick arias or art songs with minimal to no mistakes in the accompaniment meant he was sober or at least buzzed. Lovesick rock ballads or Billy Joel with occasionally missed accidentals in the accompaniment or unmarked appoggiaturas in the vocal line meant he was almost certainly drunk. A cappella performances of melodramatic pop songs currently on the radio, “Memory,” or “My Heart Will Go On,” with lyrics optional or substituted entirely? Do not expect him to make it up the stairs to his bed. If in charitable mood, consider pulling him out from under the piano and rolling him into the recovery position, just in case.

On this particular evening, Christine sat in the kitchen listening with not a little amusement to her husband working his way through "Piano Man" with decreasing accuracy. After a particularly egregious wrong chord, she heard him tell the piano to "fuck off" as he continued boldly on, skipping to the chorus. He really did have a beautiful voice, but the peculiar sobs that punctuated phrases sounded a little ridiculous, if not comical. At least he sounded like he was enjoying himself as he shouted about how the piano sounded like a carnival.

When the music stopped she took her cue. From the wine rack she grabbed a bottle of white at random and two glasses, then moved briskly towards the studio. As it came into sight, she felt her stomach give an unpleasant quiver, her limbs feeling oddly numb. Courage. Using the top of the bottle, she rapped gently against the door and waited.

After a moment, the door opened a few inches and Erik leaned against the frame, peering down at her inquisitively from behind the black mask. The pungent smell of wine wafted out around him and she held her breath until the worst of it passed.

"Yes?" he asked, carefully enunciating the word. His glassy eyes slowly fell on the bottle in her hand and he made a soft sound of approval.

Christine smiled. She glanced at her father’s violin, still safely stowed in the corner of the room. Her father would hate Erik. "What are you up to?"

"Singing…” Erik shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated way. Squinting, he reached out greedily for the bottle of wine, but he carefully kept it just out of his reach. Erik's lower lip pouted beyond the edge of the mask. “You?”

"Just came to check up on you. Thirsty?"

A lazy half-smile. “You read my mind… That’s very nice of you…”

"I have magic powers," she said, presenting the two glasses with a flourish. "But you have to share."

"Oh, if I must..." He stepped back and opened the door for her, gesturing widely for her to sit wherever she liked in the dark, muggy room that was in dire need of airing, as usual. As he spoke, there was a mischievous lilt to his words. "If you have such powers... _what else_ am I thinking, hmm?"

She moved into the room but didn't yet sit, instead watching him carefully. Repugnant as ever, he was picking sheepishly at the lint on his long sleeve button down shirt. She didn’t have to take it off, she told herself. The thought made her shudder.

"You're probably thinking you don't remember ‘Piano Man’ being so hard to play,” she said with an innocent grin.

Erik returned to the piano bench and scooted it closer to the sofa, eyeing her with a grin of his own, sheepish and relaxed. "It is proving... harder, yes... not my fault. Did you know he wrote a fugue once?"

"Not your fault," she repeated lightly. "Billy Joel did? No, I didn't know that. You learn something new every day."

“I'd play it for you, but... I'm...." He trailed off, gazing hopefully the bottle again. "Are you gonna open that...?"

"Be patient," she replied coolly, smiling as she finally took a seat in the middle of the hard, uncomfortable leather couch, placing only a few feet between them. "What have you had tonight?"

A moment of reflection followed for Erik, one that required a quick glance at the empty wine bottle standing next to a piano leg to supply the answer. "A Cabernet Sauvignon… finished nearly an hour ago? Why?”

One bottle made him drunk, two got him trashed. Good, this shouldn’t take very long, though what she wouldn’t do to be a little tipsy herself at the moment... She didn’t want to remember this. The idea, however, of losing lucid thought was worse.

Christine’s smile grew and she inched over, patting the seat beside her. "Come sit with me."

"...Why?" He tilted his head backwards and regarded her through suspicious, narrowed eyes.

A quirk of her eyebrows. "Because I told you to."

"Mmmm." To her satisfaction, Erik gamely relocated from the bench to the sofa with the careful movements of a habitual drinker, but he kept to the furthest end, which created a space between them large enough to be occupied by a third person.

"You had dinner?" he asked.

She shifted cautiously closer to him, feeling very much like a lioness stalking her prey. "Not yet. In a bit. Can you open this for me?"

She handed the bottle to him, which he accepted eagerly and squinted at the label. After nodding his approval, he got up to rummage for a corkscrew in the side-table drawer. Of course he kept one here. She wondered how many other places in the house he’d cached them like an alcoholic squirrel. Once he found what he was looking for, he proceeded to twist out the cork with a fair amount of concentration.

"You shouldn't drink with an empty stomach," he murmured reproachfully.

"I know," she said, her smile becoming just a little devious. "I'll be good, promise."

"Promise?" Mirroring her smile, he offered the opened bottle to her, but was clearly only prepared to let go until she replied in the affirmative.

She raised her eyebrows. Was someone developing a conscience? "Promise. I said so already."

"Just making sure… Because you’ll be grumpy tomorrow..."

" _You'll_ be grumpy tomorrow." She recovered the wine from him and filled one of the glasses generously, which she handed to him, before pouring a scant half-glass for herself.

"Slanderous… I am _never_ grumpy…" Erik said, lifting the glass to her in a silent toast before taking a long sip. She, however, abstained, which he apparently did not notice or if he did, he didn’t care to comment.

"You're always grumpy," she said with an inexplicably bright tone and matching flirtatious grin. "I should call you Grumpy."

"If you call me Grumpy, then I have to call you..." He pursed his lips and took another sip, swishing the wine around his mouth while he pondered his choices. "Bossy? Is that a dwarf? No, not a dwarf..."

"I'm not bossy." She pouted, continuing to inch closer towards him. Less than a foot between them.

Erik didn’t seem to notice her gradual approach. With a comically exaggerated wince, he instead held up his thumb and forefinger and pinched them together. " _Little bit._ You could be Happy, though, if you tried..."

"I'm _not_ bossy," she insisted again. "And even if I was, you like it."

He took another, more thoughtful sip. "Lies and nonsense... no one likes being bossed around… I know I don’t."

Her smile had turned predatory. She took a subtle breath. Like a violin. "I think you do. A little."

"You can't boss me..." he said slowly with a crooked smirk.

She was watching him. He reminded her of a child sometimes. And, admittedly, the monster under the bed at others. Caution attempted to rise in her stomach and she pushed it down. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe." He took another drink, not taking his eyes from her, then set the glass on the windowsill.

She shrugged, seemingly disinterested all of a sudden. After a sigh, she feigned taking a sip of wine. "It's boring now."

"What's boring now?"

"If you tell me to tell you what to do, it's not the same." Another fake sip. "I like to see you shocked. That's the fun part."

Erik blinked then snorted with laughter that, for a moment, he struggled to bring under control. He bowed his head and ran a hand under his mask to wipe at tears of amusement that she didn’t quite understand. "When have you seen me shocked? You can't shock me..."

"That's definitely a challenge," she replied, eyes bright. "Drink your wine.”

"Bossy again..." He straightened up with a sly smirk. "If I didn't know better... I'd say you were trying to get me drunk, missy." That did not stop him from reaching for his glass and taking another gulp. He had a fourth of it left.

"You're already drunk," she said with a snicker. "Not a very hard job."

"Hardly drunk," he assured her, illustrating the extent of his inebriation again by pinching his thumb and forefinger together. "Or... little lady, you're trying to make me sick... which is... shame on you..."

"Why would I be trying to do something so mean?" Her voice was petulant, but overly coquettish. "Do you think I'm mean?"

He shrugged, swirling the rest of his drink around the glass. "Sometimes. I don't think you mean it though... you're sweet..."

"Am I?" she asked, smiling again. "You really think so?"

"Yeah..." His eyes returned to her face with complacent, passive pleasure. "Really do. I like sweet people..."

"So you like me? Had no idea."

"Surprise." He winked at her. "Actually… you might not know this… but I _love_ you. _A lot_."

She smiled, the facade slipping just a little. She blushed. He’d been so good at making her blush before she’d realized what a monstrous pig he was—and he was, that was the thing to remember. "Thank you."

"You're welcome..." He smiled, turning his face away shyly. He distracted himself by finishing off the last of his wine and turned it over like a shot glass on the windowsill. "I don't tell you enough. So there."

She filled her glass up and handed it to him. "So there. Thanks for sharing."

"Anytime. You told me to share, and I did..." he murmured, accepting the glass automatically. He didn't drink immediately; he seemed to be slowing down. Erik frowned at her. "Finished already?"

"Taking a breather. Lightweight, remember?" She smiled and shuffled even closer. Their legs were touching now. She reached out and carelessly left a hand on his knee.

"That's right..." He took a sip, then slowly looked to her with bleary confusion evident even behind the mask. "Are you cold?"

"Hm? No. Why would you say that?"

"You're sitting… very close..."

An easy grin. "Oh. Sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Mmmmm..." He had to contemplate this, never taking his eyes from her. Another sip of wine was necessary to clarify his thoughts. "No?"

Christine caught a glimpse of her reflection in the tall, glass display case against the wall. If she'd been older or wearing makeup, one may have been able to call her expression wolfish. "Good. I'm glad."

In spite of claims of relaxation, Erik nevertheless tried to retreat from her, now flush against the arm of the sofa. He continued to watch her, gaze unfocused. "Why...?"

"It'd be an awful shame if you were uncomfortable," she murmured, reaching out to grasp his hand, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to rush and make him suspicious.

Confused, he took a final sip of wine and set it aside on the window sill, next to the other glass. It was a little under half full now. Would that be enough? Did she dare coax him to finish the rest?

"That's... nice of you..." he mumbled, frowning at her.

"Thank you.”

Uncertainly, he placed his hand on the thin space of cushion between them, palm up, and she lightly rested hers atop, running her fingers down the gaps between his. Erik watched this with fascination, his fingers twitching at the touch. He curled his hand around hers; for once he actually felt warm to the touch.

She smiled and didn't resist. "Not uncomfortable?"

"No... That feels kinda good..." He gave a shy, crooked smile.

"Kinda?" She was pouting again.

"I'm a tiny bit drunk," he admitted. "Don't feel it like I should..."

"Oh well," Her smile was neutral. "Can still feel it, that's the important thing."

"You used to pet my hair when I was drunk, remember?" He gave her hand a squeeze, which she didn’t reciprocate. "I miss that."

"I had other plans for tonight," she said quietly. Admittedly, lying down and stroking his hair seemed like a far preferable option given her choices, but she supposed this was a case of the ends justifying the means. It would be worth it.

"Like what?"

At this, nothing but a smile.

Warily, Erik let go and pulled his hand away, curling them both protectively in his lap. "Why... are you smiling?"

"Because I want to," she said, still all innocence.

“...'Kay… Maybe you should drink more if it makes you smile..." His words were finally beginning to slur a little.

She nodded. "That's a good idea. Do you like when I smile?"

"....Yeah. I like that..."

The smile grew, rewarding him. "Good."

"Why good?" In spite of her open reassurance, he watched her uncertainly, hands curling nervously again.

She shrugged. "Just good. It's good for a man to think his wife has a good smile, isn't it?"

"Yeah... you're… you’re inna really good mood t’night..."

"Am I?"

"You're smiling... drinking, too... you never do that..." She still hadn’t touched a drop. Good.

"I decided to be nice."

"Why? Wha’... what did I do?" He shifted away and was again dismayed to find there was no more space left on the couch. With effortful coordination, he escaped to sit on the piano bench and gripped the edges tightly with both hands.

"Nothing," she said, not yet following him. Her bravery felt shaky. "Do I need a reason to be nice?"

"With me? Yeah... you always have a reason..."

Another lazy shrug of her shoulders. "I'm bored and you're interesting."

"You really think so?"

She got up and moved slowly towards him. Time to work. "Mmhmm. Really interesting."

"Thanks, I guess..." Erik struggled to focus on her as she approached.

She stood a couple feet in front of him, crossing her arms, heart thumping. "Stand up."

"...Why?"  His shoulders hunched uncertainly.

"You heard me. Stand up."

Erik hesitated before carefully doing as she said, teetering a little once he was upright. He peered down at her with a deep frown.

She smiled again. Like a predator, she hoped. She reached out and smoothed her hands over the front of his dark dress shirt, able to count individual ribs. "Heaps better this way, right?"

"Wha’s... what’s better?" he asked, looking down at her hands. His own rose as if to grab her by the wrists, but didn't, and they hung stiffly in the air.

"Telling you what to do. See, you're surprised."

Erik slowly covered her hands with his, then attempted to make eye contact, confused. "I'm... not surprised, I just... I don't..."

A grin. "You don't what?"

"I don' know what's going on..." Erik’s lower lip pouted.

She touched one hand gently to his masked cheek, frowning as though in intense thought. "What are you thinking? My magic powers went away."

"I don'... know..." This time his hands did curl around her wrists as if to push her away, but again, he didn’t.

"I think you do," she said, meeting his eyes unashamedly. At the same time, she undid one of the top buttons of his shirt. Perhaps it did have to come off. Ugh.

The flush of alcohol already evident on his throat intensified; his ears went pink and his eyes glistened a little. "I don' know what you want, Christine..." He attempted to lean away from her, which served only to disrupt his center of balance. He instinctively grabbed her shoulders to steady himself.

"Don't you?" She placed two fingers on his neck. She felt his pulse pounding, skipping even faster as she stroked his bare skin. "I think your heart does."

"It's the wine..." he protested weakly, embarrassed, and his hand closed around her forearm. "I'm not... it isn't like that..."

"Isn't it?" she said, gazing up from under lowered eyelids. It certainly was like that. She wasn’t pleased. Satisfied perhaps.

“...Maybe a little..." he mumbled, staring at her face. He clumsily cupped her jaw in his palm and for a moment, Christine felt a horrifying presentiment that he might try to kiss her right then and there. Instead, to her relief, he asked: "Why are you... doing this...?"

Christine's eyes glinted. "Doing what?"

"You're standing... really close..." His other hand settled to her shoulder, almost on her neck. He was whispering.

"Mmhmm. Is that a problem?"

"Yeah..." He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing, with only a thin layer of silk between them. "It kinda is..."

"Why's that?"

"This is against the rules..." he mumbled, swaying a little. He began to pet her hair with an overly gentle touch.

"It is, is it?" She leaned intentionally into his touch. "I've never been good with rules."

And it was true. Once she’d stayed past her midnight curfew in Raoul’s apartment—on the couch, though; even with Raoul she’d never done _this_ —with the intention of spending the morning with him. At four AM she’d been woken by every window in the apartment shattering and letting in the cold Chicago winter. A couple of months after, she’d found herself bedridden with a dreadful cold, again breaking curfew at Raoul’s. Erik had retaliated by abducting Raoul and locking him in what had been nothing less than undignified, DIY jail cell for a week.

Erik mumbled something incomprehensible as his hands slid down her sides to her waist, pushing the tips of his fingers under the waistband of her jeans. He stepped a little closer so their chests touched.

In spite of the sudden sick terror, she smiled. "What was that, kiddo?"

He pressed his cheek against hers, his breath hot in her ear as he slurred, "Promises're hard to keep sometimes..."

Her eyes hardened. She closed them. What was she thinking? "That's very true."

"How... how important are… promises?"

She cleared her throat. "Well, you already broke them."

She had expected perhaps that he would throw caution to the wind and do it and then be done with it. That had been the hope, anyway.

But to her dismay, Erik shoved her back by the shoulders with an inarticulate sound of horror, and clumsily stepped aside so he didn't stumble back over the piano bench. He did anyway, over-compensating his balance and landed on his hands and knees on the Persian rug with a dull thud.

"Fuck you,” he whispered loudly. “So that's... that's what you were up to..."

She flinched. "Excuse me?"

"Trying to get me... to break the rules..." Erik stared up at her from the floor with an unfocused glare. He pushed himself arduously to his feet with clumsy limbs, using the piano to steady himself. "When I've worked hard to be so good..."

She stepped back. Oh, God. "No, that's... no."

"You're a bad liar..." He shook his head, shoulders tensing almost up to his ears. "Scheming... bad liar... that was good, though... impressive..."

"Don't call me that, please." Her voice was trembling and her face was turning red. She wasn’t sure whether being called a liar or being called a bad one was worse. "I wasn't... it wasn't meant to be like that."

For a stomach-lurching moment, she felt a wild need to confess her deceit and name her demands, but the terror of what he would say, what he would do, kept her from it.

“You took advantage of me... kudos to you..." Erik pointed a finger at her. "But this... doesn't count, understand? Everything stands... I've been so very good for you..."

"Erik, you're... what are you even saying?"

"You can' hold this against me... I didn't break our agreement… I didn’t… You touched me first..." His voice broke; the tears were forming in his bloodshot, glazed eyes. As he curled both his hands over the back of his neck, he sucked in a tremulous, sharp breath. "This doesn' count, you understand?”

She blinked, face burning scarlet. This was the worst shame she’d ever felt. "I understand. Please don't be angry with me."

He made eye contact with her, gaze now dark with unmistakable anger and embarrassment. She watched the mask adhere wetly to his face as tears soaked through. "This never happened... we both forget about it... okay?"

Christine was the first to break the silence, staring at the floor. "Yeah."

"Why don't you go to bed... or whatever... I wanna be alone." Erik sounded exhausted. He turned his back to her and pushed up the sodden mask to rub his face against his hands.

She nodded, though he couldn't see it. "Sorry. Night."

"Night," he whispered loudly in a tight voice.

She stood there for a moment, searching for something else to say, watching his back in silence.

When she didn’t leave, he ran his hands through his hair, and pleaded tearfully. "Please, Christine... just go..."

"Don't drink more tonight?"

"I won't."

She didn't smile. "Thanks. Goodnight. Sorry."

And she was out of the room before she could hear a reply, half-running, half-walking upstairs as fast as she could.

Once safe in her bedroom, she sat back against the door with her head in her hands. The blush had left her face but the shame still burned. What the hell did she think she was even doing? This was horrible. A horrible idea with horrible methods. Why did she even think she was capable of this?

Perhaps if he’d knocked back another bottle first. Or vodka. She should use vodka next time instead...

No. No, no, no, she had to stop thinking about this and put it out of her mind completely. It wasn’t worth it. And the thought that she would have to try it all over again made her wish she brought the rest of the wine upstairs with her. Maybe she should just give up. She didn’t need children. This was a stupid idea.

But she couldn’t help but think of how he had everything he wanted, all at her expense. She had uprooted her entire life, lied to her family, and left someone she’d... liked a lot, only to be cloistered away in this damned house for far too long with nothing to do and so long to go before she was free. There was nothing in this arrangement to benefit her, so he could put up with a little inconvenience on her account. It was the least he could do.

Contemplating bed, she looked about the room for her cat. Edgar must have been out prowling around because she couldn’t find him anywhere. Not wanting to sleep with her door open waiting for him to come in, she wasted a few minutes looking for her grown kitten up the hallway, where he was already asleep, roosting like a chicken in his cat tree. She thought about disturbing him and hauling him back to her room, but decided against it. She even thought about sleeping in here with him, but decided against that as well.

A little while later, after watching him sleep, Christine finally returned to her own bed. It would be alright. Embarrassed though she still was about her failure... she would try again later.

But this was going to be harder than she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! We want to thank you so much for reading so far; we absolutely love the comments we’ve been getting. But we wanted to let you know that from this point on there are going to be pretty significant triggers for sexual violence, domestic abuse, and alcohol abuse. So see how you go, but we certainly understand if that's not your cup of tea. :)


	7. Chapter 7

In August, she redoubled her efforts.

Christine took advantage of the sweltering heat by wearing as little clothing as necessary. This crude change of tack served the dual purpose of keeping her wonderfully cool while hopefully inspiring the kind of thoughts in Erik’s mind that, for the first time in their acquaintance, she actually wanted there.

If it sounded desperate, it was because she was. But if her history with Erik had taught her anything, it was that he would snap in the end. Push him far enough, taunt him too long with what he couldn’t have, and he became a terrifying study in poor judgment, indifferent to right or wrong or the law of the land. Breaking points riddled his fragile psyche like a window seconds to shattering. Trouble was, the extent of his reaction was unpredictable. Just off the top of her head, she recalled that making Raoul her boyfriend had gotten her kidnapped, making out with him in the hallway—how she missed that—had gotten the brake lines of his car cut, a Chagny-owned warehouse mysteriously exploded when—in spite of Erik’s begrudging blessing—she accompanied Raoul to a New Year’s party, while veiled online flirting with her boyfriend had provoked an aggressive proposal of marriage…  

Needless to say, it was felony Russian roulette, but a game she didn’t fear when she had nothing to lose...

A little preparation was necessary. While Christine wouldn’t call her wardrobe prudish, it certainly wasn’t the closet of a femme fatale. So she sacrificed a couple pairs of jeans to the cause, reducing them to short cut-offs, and paired them with tight-fitting tank tops. And that was all.

The first few times she’d left her room and marched decisively downstairs, she’d been mortified at herself. Except for the incident with the nightgown, she had never dressed so provocatively in her life. This wasn’t her. But, once as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she realized the whole thing was so much more effective when she defiantly held her chin high, her chest forward just like it ought to be before singing... Back when she still sang, anyway.

Maybe she should change her mind about those free voice lessons Erik offered her. A point for every chord he missed in her warm-ups as she conveniently forgot to breathe from her diaphragm.

But her embarrassment paid off. Erik noticed. Oh, how he noticed. Exposed to more of the female form he had apparently ever seen in his life, he openly gawked when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. And when she did look in his direction, she took empty pleasure at the way he desperately averted his eyes, at the way he often adjusted his posture when she remained too long in the room.

At every opportunity, she brushed his hand or touched his shoulders and felt him tremble, yet he did nothing except revoke her movie night selection privileges after she decided on _Pretty Woman_ one too many times. She would call the feeling victorious if it wasn’t so weird.

Was she witnessing self-control?

As the weeks rolled by, her dismay at his passivity increased and that dismay soon turned to resentment.  Day by day, he became harder to find in the house.

There was once a time, locked in that basement apartment with him, that she feared Erik might stop... behaving like a gentleman. He had assured her repeatedly that nothing could be farther from his intentions, that he simply _wouldn’t_ ; but having broken her trust in the past, she did not allow herself the luxury of believing him. Maybe she should have.

It appeared, when it suited him, that her husband was more than capable of controlling himself and for reasons she couldn’t even articulate inside her head, that made her angrier than anything else.

It was September now. Summer would be ending soon.

One stifling night, long after the sun had set, she set out on one final prowl before bed in search of her husband. He had been working on the basement remodel all day as far as she could tell and had not so much as glimpsed him. Not in his bedroom and not in his studio, she hoped he had not chosen to sleep down below; that was one place she had no desire to go.

Christine found him in the den.

He was lying on his side on the couch, watching the new 85-inch flat-screen where a weeping Kate Winslet was reciting Shakespeare in the rain to a gloomy English manor house. A nearby fan quietly circulated the thick heavy air, which she doubted did much good when he still insisted on wearing long sleeve shirts in this weather. As testament to the heat, the black silk mask also clung damply to his face, and she was struck by how much the fabric masks unsettled her sometimes. He didn’t bother fashioning a nose like he did with the leather one, making his profile unnervingly flat and alien... She tried not to focus on this, not now.

To her grim satisfaction, there was an open bottle of vodka on the coffee table, about a fourth of it left.

Crossed her arms over her chest, Christine leaned against the wall near the door, observing him silently and thoughtfully. After several moments, though, Erik glanced towards her and stilled. She inhaled.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you...” he apologized slowly, his glazed eyes carefully fixed on her face.

“Insomnia,” she lied. She paused to watch the screen, feigning interest in a film she had seen half a dozen times by now.  “D’you mind if I watch with you for a bit?”

A cautious smile formed and curled up his legs to make room for her on the couch, without bothering to sit up. "Nope.”

She moved over to the couch, perching herself next to him, and glanced disinterestedly at her nails.

She’d been stupid last time. Too affectionate. Too normal. Too suspicious. But not now.

“It’s kind of weird how much you like Jane Austen,” she remarked absently after a moment. “Haven’t you seen this a hundred times or something?”

“I like the end.”

A rich bachelor in his thirties with a tragic history falls in love with a young, nearly penniless girl and—through patience, acts of devotion, and music—eventually wins her heart after she discovers the selfish and profligate nature of the handsome, young suitor who swept her away from him. Cue the wedding. Christine couldn’t imagine even remotely what appealed to him about this story.

“You must like happy endings a lot, huh?” She turned towards him, putting one arm over the back of the couch.

“Yeah.” The light of the television glinted in his eyes as he stared at her bare arm with forced disinterest in the dark.  “You know… I always thought it would’ve been easier for me if I’d been… born in the nineteenth century, you know? Or earlier.”

“Really.”

“If Mother didn’t drown me as a baby or… expose me to the elements… then I could make my fortune somehow and one day, I would seduce a bankrupt aristocrat’s daughter or… anyone really… and then I’d have a wife. She would learn to love me because I’m a good husband...”

“Gee, thanks. Your actual wife is sitting right here, remember?”

“I know… and I appreciate it, I really do.” He paused, still watching her. “I just mean… it would’ve been easier to get here is all. Easier for you.”

“In your dreams.”

“Money and status meant more back then, you know… Things would have been different.”

“Yeah?”

“For one… you wouldn’t be the daughter of a pot-smoking hippie. You could appreciate my assets...”

In a flash, Christine reached over and swatted him on the calf—the closest part of him she could reach without moving—but there was a smile on her face. “Excuse you?”

Laughing quietly, he drew his legs closer to himself in protection, and rubbed where she had touched him. “I mean it… in the best possible way… nothing wrong with pot… ”

“Nothing wrong with pot, eh? How drunk are you?” She smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"Moderately buzzed. For now anyway."

Christine shifted a few inches closer to him, grinning. "Moderately? Are there other kinds of buzzed?"

Erik watched her with vague confusion, but otherwise did not move. "Of course. There's... Gently buzzed... Mostly buzzed... Really buzzed... Then properly sozzled..."

She laughed, leaning back a little as she pulled her feet up onto the couch, sitting cross-legged. "Fascinating."

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked softly, finally pulling himself upright into a sitting position.

"Mmmmmno." She drew the sound out, keeping the smile on her face. "Drinking makes me way too hot."

"Yeah..." he agreed quietly, ruefully, touching a hand to his masked face and adjusting it. "Are you very warm right now?"

"Mmm." She grinned. "I have no idea how you wear so much."

"I'm easily chilled... Besides, one gets used to it." He shrugged. "This isn't bad at all. We barely had air conditioning when I was growing up… and it was hot year-round"

"Lucky you," she said, smiling. "Wish I found cooling down that easy. I've considered ice baths."

"We can... turn up the A/C if you're so desperate," Erik replied softly with a shy smile. "Unless you're really that masochistic... Ice baths are awful."

Her grin turned predatory. "How am I meant to be dramatic when you're so thoughtful?"

"It’s one of my few good qualities. Unless, of course…” He hesitated. “Unless… you really want me to go get you some ice... Draw a bath for you... Perhaps we need a pool..."

She raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you wanted to see your wife in a bikini."

At that, Erik's ears flushed pink and he glanced hastily away. "That’s... that's not what I... I... there are other styles than... than that. No need to be... so extreme... Not to say you wouldn't look… what I mean to say is..."

She laughed in undisguised satisfaction. "You _do_ , don't you?"

Erik pressed a hand against his face with a quiet sigh. The pink turned to red. "I... I shouldn't want to, I know... but it isn't so wrong though... is it?" He glanced at her, looking distinctly pained.

When Christine didn't stop laughing, Erik stared at the bottle of vodka still on the coffee table with undisguised moroseness.

"I'm disgusting, I know... I'm sorry..." he mumbled. "Why is that so funny to you?"

She gave him a smug grin in reply, refusing to actually answer.

"It isn't as if I've ever hidden the fact that I... that I find you..." Erik seemed incapable of producing the word he was thinking of or looking for and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He rubbed at his face again with both hands. "I don't know why that’s so funny to you..."

The smile fell away. She was watching him. "You find me what?"

Erik couldn't look at her and stared at the texture of the leather couch instead. "Attractive," he mumbled. "Beautiful. Desirable."

She’d had boyfriends. She knew that she was reasonably pretty. But nobody had ever called her those things so… genuinely. It made her chest hurt, though she tried not to dwell on it, and her laughter returned.

The effect was immediate. Erik sighed in exasperation, shaking his head, then slouched back on the couch to brood. "Oh, it doesn't even matter."

Her eyes narrowed. "What, expecting me to reciprocate?"

It was Erik's turn to burst into tired, bitter laughter. "It's a wonder you haven't already! I'm so handsome and alluring... How can you not find this enticing…?" He touched a lazy hand to his chest before rolling his eyes and looking back to the television. "As if."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, stop, dear, I may swoon."

"I'll do my best... but with a husband like me, how can you not swoon?" His tone was dark and mocking. "You’re the luckiest woman in creation to have this all to yourself, you know...“

The bastard. Christine was glaring. "Only lucky because I know nobody else has to put up with you."

"And the world thanks you for taking me off the market," Erik said, smirking humorlessly. "I'm not so bad as husbands go... I provide... I'm attentive... I keep the house tidy... Really, I'm ideal."

"Oh, darling, you're perfect," she hissed. Most good husbands also had that devastatingly attractive trait of only proposing to girls after any confirmed mutual affection at all, rather than as some sick power play.

"Aren't I just?" he simpered, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her face, careful not to touch skin. "A perfect husband for a perfect wife."

She glared at him viciously now. "Don't touch me."

Of course, he’d have to touch her eventually—that was sort of a prerequisite for The Act—but it was going to be entirely on her terms. For once.

“I didn't." He smirked and retracted his hand. "I'm not."

“Yes. You did. My hair is attached to me, idiot."

"Did you feel anything? I didn't."

She narrowed her eyes, and suddenly leaned closer to him, deliberately invading his personal space with an innocent look on her face. "Oh. Do you feel anything now?"

Erik's smirk faded a little, replaced by a grimace as he forced himself to remain where he was. He glanced away. "You know I do..."

Christine shuffled even closer to him, biting her lip. "Yeah? How about now?"

Erik drew in a measured breath and closed his eyes. "You've played this game long enough to... know the answer to that," he whispered.

Closer still. "So say it."

"Say what?" He gripped the edge of the couch.

She was hardly a few inches away, her mouth close to his ear, lips curled in a smirk. "I think you know."

A visible shiver ran through him. "There are… lots of things I could say right now... few of which are... appropriate."

She chuckled with satisfaction. "Oh, please, I'm listening."

"I love you, for one," he murmured. His eyes slid halfway open to watch her reaction, still refusing to move from his position.

The smile didn't leave her face. "Horrifically inappropriate thing to say to your wife, of course."

"It is when it’s me," he whispered with a ghost of a smirk. "And I wish... I wish things were like they were... when you liked me...."

Christine sat back in her place, crossing her arms. She was smirking. "Well, that's too damn bad, isn't it?"

Erik’s expression grew gloomy and, without a reply, he finally— _finally_ —reached for the vodka. He turned back to stare at the television, taking a couple gulps straight from the bottle, then held it between his legs as he slouched back against the sofa. Conversation fell silent, the only sounds in the room being Alan Rickman’s sonorous drone from the film and the fan whirring on high speed.

Christine settled back as if returning to the film as well, keeping an eye on him in her peripheral vision. If nothing else her kid might be taller than her. That was a comfort at least.

Several moments passed. Marianne burned with fever while Eleanor kept tearful vigil, unable to contemplate a future without her. Sweeping shots of the lush, English countryside. Colonel Brandon reading poetry to Marianne. Erik continued to sip habitually at his liquor until, lifting the bottle and tilting it back one final time, not even the smallest drop ran out. He frowned and abandoned the empty container on the table.

Letting out an audible sigh, he turned to watch her tiredly, sadly, and rubbed absently at his stomach. "You kissed me once... do you remember?"

His speech was becoming slower, more deliberate. She rolled her eyes. "You kissed me first."

"You said it didn't count..."

And sighed. "It didn't count when I kissed you either."

Erik blinked slowly and asked in a small, confused voice, "...What? Why not?"

About a week before he proposed to her, Erik had asked if he could come over to her apartment for the evening, a request she dared not refuse. Quite unexpectedly, he brought with him—of all things—a brand new, industrial blender. After making up a batch of smoothies, they engaged in wanton destruction of a box of old electronics Erik had also brought along for the purpose. It was a surreal, but thoroughly entertaining evening, and she had actually enjoyed herself.

At some point, she remembered feeling at ease enough to stand close and gaze up at him. The evening had been fun and comfortable, feeling so much like before when their friendship was innocent and uncomplicated by possessiveness and jealousy. He must have felt similarly because he startled her with the gentlest of kisses to the corner of her mouth. To be honest, she had expected something like that to happen at some point, but Erik evidently hadn’t as he spent the next half hour weeping on her couch in abject apology and embarrassment.

It didn’t count because he missed, she tried to tease him, but that did little to console him. So before he went home that night, she took him aside and kissed him properly to prove she wasn’t angry with him. And also maybe a little because she felt sorry that his “first kiss” had been so lame.

Christine felt herself flush at the memory. Save for that chaste peck at their wedding, it was the only time they had ever kissed. How she regretted it.

"I didn't want to upset you,” she replied quietly. “That's not a reason to kiss someone."

"But... but it was still a kiss... that has to count for something..." Erik repeated, sounding legitimately distressed. He stared at her, gaze unfocused. "I wasn' expecting you to... but you did it anyway... it… it still counts as a kiss, doesn’t it…?"

Christine rubbed her forehead and pulled her bare legs to her chest. "It was different. That's all. It wasn't... I wouldn't normally do something like that I guess."

Hurt silence followed her confession.

Raoul never found out. She had been too embarrassed and guilty to tell him, and Erik, to her relief, had not felt the need to rub it in his face.

"I knew it was too good to be true..." he mumbled. "Glad I never told Ghaz... or anyone... " He looked at her, betrayed. He shifted closer. "So... what else didn't count?"

She sighed. "Stop it, Erik."

"Stop what? What about... what about… Christmas? That hug? The first real hug I ever had an'… did you only do it because you didn' want me to be upset? It doesn’ count, either… does it?" He was no longer making an effort to articulate words.

She shrugged, shoulders tightening aggressively. "I never want you to be upset."

"Of course you don'," Erik muttered, shifting a little closer. His leg brushed against hers. "Except… when you do this? You know how upset it makes me... you enjoy how... upset it makes me, don' you?"

She didn't respond, embarrassed, and stared at her knees. Erik stared at them, too. Then he leaned closer and gently kissed the nearest one.

She forced down her disgust. This was what she wanted. Her face became a frown. "What're you doing?"

Erik shook his head and placed a cool hand on her other knee. "Why d’you... keep doing this t’me?"

Her throat constricted. "I don't know."

“You kiss me then tell me it's not a real kiss... you temp’ me to break the rules and do things that any normal man would take as... invitation... even when I ask you to stop..." He stared at her with a pronounced frown, gently stroking her thigh. "It's... making me crazy..."

She stared at his hand blankly. "You don't seem to mind too much."

"It’s because… I like to pretend you actually want me," he murmured, watching her face. "...Unless you do?"

Christine scrutinized him for a moment, and chose not to reply. She wouldn’t ruin this again.

Erik's breath grew a little unsteady, then he leaned forward to kiss the corner of her mouth before pulling back to carefully watch her face, clearly bracing himself for a slap he expected to follow; but apart from the slightest twitch in her expression, Christine hardly reacted. She met his eyes, refusing to be intimidated, watching him just as intently.

"You don'... seem to mind too much," he echoed softly, stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. Tears glinted in his eyes. He shifted ever closer and began to kiss her throat in careful, calculated movements, waiting for her to react. His heart was beginning to pound hard enough that Christine could feel it.

"I guess not," she replied quietly, taking a slow, deep breath, making a show of her complete relaxation. "How about that."

"How 'bout that, indeed?" Even his voice trembled.

As though compelled to see to what extent she was willing to tolerate this game, with trembling hands, he attempted to coax her knees apart. Her eyes narrowing, Christine shifted slightly, careful not to make it seem as if she was resisting, though she felt a queasy stab of apprehension. Steady.

She placed her hand innocently on top of his and put her lips against his ear. "Whatcha think you're doing?"

He instinctively shied away from her lips, an uncontrolled shiver of emotion running down his entire body. His response came in a hoarse whisper. "I think you know..."

Her other hand she placed on his chest, above his heart. With a sigh—her breathing, too, was trembling—she pressed her face into his neck so that she could screw her eyes shut without his noticing, and made no further move to resist him. She tried not to flinch when she felt his cool hand slide up under her top to touch her breast.

At first she only felt his hands groping self-consciously over her body, her hips, her thighs, enough for her to wonder if his bravado had failed him and that he had gone as far as he could or as he intended. A horrifying thought crossed her mind, that maybe he was too drunk and she would have endured this for nothing... But then, with a jolt of trepidation, she felt him tugging off her shorts with increasing urgency and heard them hit the floor nearby. She felt chilled and flushed at the same time. Hearing the clink of his belt being undone, Christine desperately tried not to think about what was happening, especially not when she became embarrassingly aware of his clammy body between her bare thighs; of an uncomfortably intimate, digging pressure that forced a sharp gasp of shock from her even as she tried not to pull away. A similar noise answered in her ear and she grit her teeth.

An unpleasant medical procedure, that’s all this was. A short, unpleasant, but necessary procedure that would improve her quality of life once it was all done. Like a tooth extraction. Just get it over with.

Cheeks burning with something that wasn’t quite shame, she turned her thoughts rather forcibly to when she was going to have to take Hilary and Rob’s kids next. She liked being out of the house, away from him—a fresh jolt of discomfort—and they reminded her of the darling children she’d minded back in Chicago. Maximilian and Grace. They’d been sweet kids, with mouse brown hair and dimples. She wondered fleetingly what her own would look like. Dad’s warm green eyes. Mom’s high cheekbones and broad smile. She loved kids.

Far sooner than she expected, Erik groaned and dropped weakly on top of her, his head on her shoulder, trembling while he struggled to master his ragged breathing. A numb surge of relief and accomplishment followed and she took a slow breath of her own, but it quickly evaporated, replaced by a growing sense of disgust and horror.  

None too carefully, she shoved him away and rolled out from under him. Landing on the floor on her hands and knees, she groped for her shorts, which she pulled on as quickly as she could with limbs that did not feel like hers. She felt strange--outside herself, even.

Behind her, Erik mumbled something incoherently. Suddenly she felt his hand on her bare arm and instinctively she jerked away without looking at him, skin crawling.

 

 

_"I'm very handsome, aren’t I?"_

_"...Oh...”_

_"Shall I take off the rest for you, too, darling? Oh, I bet you cannot wait to get your hands on this. Would you like to see how far my good looks go?"_

_"Wha- what do you mean?"_

_"Why don’t you take off my shirt next? Oh, go on, Christine...You’re so eager to strip me of my mask, surely you must crave the sight of my Adonis body, too! Though, I don't advise it—your standards of beauty will change forever! No one can compete with me in that, you see! Come on, don’t be shy…!”_

_"I'm… Erik, I'm really, really sorry."_

  
  


Once again, Erik grabbed for her arm. Expression blank, she slowly glanced back at him where he was still lying on his stomach. She kept her eyes carefully on his masked face while he awkwardly pulled up his jeans as if only just now realizing his state of undress. For a moment, he met her gaze with tired, half-lidded eyes, then smothered a yawn.

He spoke again, quietly, and this time she understood what he was trying to say. “Y’okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Mmkay.”

Erik fell silent and she sat reluctantly on the floor beside the couch, staring up at the television screen. For some minutes, there in the dark, she listened to the hauntingly happy ending credits of the film, feeling a little dazed and the need to air out the muggy room.

By the time the screen went dark and the song ended, Erik’s breathing had grown slow and deep. That was good enough.

Getting to her feet, Christine switched off the television, and bolted upstairs.

  


The second her bedroom door closed behind her, Christine was already stripping and suffering an intense urge to burn her clothes, even as she balled them up and flung them to a corner of the room with as much force as she could manage. At the very least she would throw them out, though it didn’t seem enough. For once, she couldn’t wait for the season to turn cold, so she could huddle under shapeless hoodies and sweat-clothes, and cover every inch of herself from touch and sight without discomfort.

Though she didn’t expect Erik to rouse until late noon tomorrow, she still locked her bedroom door and made her way naked to her bathroom. To think, they used to share a bathroom at the old house. She could never go back to that.

Practically leaping into the shower, she impatiently twisted the knob to hot and when the water rushing over her finally became scalding, she began to systematically wash every inch of her body, beginning with her hair and face and aggressively making her way down. The increasing heat and steam fogging up the already muggy room made her dizzy, but she continued to scrub with thick, lathering soap until her skin turned raw and lobster red. When she couldn’t bear it any more, she closed her eyes and sat on the tile floor of the shower, letting the stinging spray soak her and wash away the rest of the suds.

None of it helped as much as she had thought it would—she still felt disgusting and filthy, inside and out—but the pain at least was beginning to help her feel more like herself again, more inside her body again.

And the horrible thing was finally done.

Yet a small, insidious voice rose in the back of her mind… what if it didn’t take? What if this amounted to nothing? She would have to do _that_ again. She’d have to _feel_ him again, his breath on her neck, his weight on top of her, his cool skin sticking to her… A violent shudder ran through her and for an intense moment she wanted to throw up.

No, it was done. It was done and she was allowed to celebrate small victories for what they were and enjoy the relief of success. She deserved it. And the aftermath and what-ifs she could worry about tomorrow, when she planned to diligently avoid her husband while consuming every carton of lactose-free ice cream in the freezer, even the almond kind she despised.

The summer air wafting in through the open window felt cool on her skin when she finally emerged from the bathroom, teeth brushed and throat gargled with mouthwash for good measure.

After throwing on a favorite pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, Christine moved towards her bed, where Edgar was already dozing on top of her pillows. She sighed and slid underneath the covers, burying her head under a blanket in mortification. How could she even face him again? But the hot, close air reminded her of Erik, and, forcing back an urge to gag, she pulled her head out again.

Edgar’s breathing was rhythmic and soothing and the moonlight from her uncovered windows glinted on his fur as she watched him. It was a long time before she slept—in fact, she saw the sky turning grey-blue as dawn began to rise—but when she did, her sleep was long, fitful, and dreamless.


	8. Chapter 8

It was the next day that two things occurred to Christine: first, that she might have made a mistake, and second, that she may have married a Bond villain. Considering Raoul had driven an Aston Martin, the latter ought to have occurred to her sooner and prevented the former from happening.

For one, Erik had finally—or was nearly—finished renovating the basement. From what little she had seen so far, it resembled the one at the old house with its heavy steel door at the bottom of the stairs and hidden entry at the top, as if expecting…  Well, whatever compelled him to turn an ordinary door into a secret entrance nigh indistinguishable from the rest of the wood panelling in the hallway, that’s what he was defending against. MI6? The Russians? The Mafia? Lizard People? Given they had lived here over a year absolutely undisturbed, Christine was becoming more convinced by the day that his paranoia was pathological.

… Was that sort of thing genetic? Until now, it had never occurred to her to wonder.

Early evening struck and Christine, clad in a large comfortable hoodie with the hood pulled over her unbrushed hair, made her way downstairs in search of more ice cream and food to accompany her Doctor Who marathon. She hadn’t seen her husband even once today and that was perfectly fine with her. But upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, however, Christine could hear music and the sound of Erik’s quiet singing emanating from the kitchen. She grimaced. Great. The Crypt Keeper was finally awake. Damn it.

For a moment, she wondered if she could convince him that his next home improvement project should be converting the back sitting room they never used into a spare kitchen. Or maybe she should request a mini fridge for her room. Musing on how to word that note, she nearly turned around to walk back upstairs, were it not for a strange sound coming from the kitchen as well. There was something whirring and for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what it was.

Out of curiosity, and against her better judgment, she went to investigate, only to halt in the doorway after nearly tripping over her answer. At her feet, Edgar sailed serenely by with a philosophical look in his yellow eyes, perched on what appeared to be a Roomba.

Since when did they have a Roomba?

Across the kitchen, Erik was sitting at the breakfast nook table upon which lay a black, leather tool case and the disassembled remains of what looked to be a second. She had no idea what he was doing, but he was fiddling with a circuit board from which extended several multi-colored cables. His open laptop played some Wagner opera while he hummed along quietly, engrossed in his project. Her stomach churned, made all the worse when she realized he was smiling a little.

Oh, of course someone was in a good mood. _Someone_ got laid last night.

God, that should have been Raoul, not Erik. Forever ago, she thought Raoul might be the one, the one who would have been her first. How perfect that would have been. She might have—no, she _would_ have—actually enjoyed herself in an evening of pleasure, not business. They would have spent the night cuddling warm and entwined in each other’s arms, and in the morning, Raoul would have made her blueberry pancakes, and...

Christine’s heart ached and she felt an intense need to cry. Instead, she swallowed it down, fixed her expression into one of annoyance, and imagined a roundhouse kick to Erik’s head.

Oblivious to the imagined violence, Erik was still busy twisting wires instead of noticing her. That meant she could still go back upstairs without engaging him, but after a second’s reflection interrupted by a gurgling stomach, she went over to the cupboard to pull out bread for a sandwich. If she stood a certain way, she wouldn’t even have to look at him.

When she and Raoul were dating, they used to play at being secret agents. Raoul was James Bond and she, the clever and beautiful Doctor Daae, was his arch enemy. They imagined up the most ridiculous scenarios—it had all been so childish, so stupid, and so _fun_ —yet in some strange twist of hilarious fate, somehow his real life nemesis legitimately turned out to be a man who would not be out of place in a Bond film with his disfigurement, his secret lair, the gadgets, even a cat… All the times he threatened to kill Raoul but never did… She felt a hysterical need to laugh, but controlled it.

Christine wondered, as she turned to pull out a jar of peanut butter, if Erik realized he was the living embodiment of a TV Trope. It would explain his irritation everytime he overheard their game. That, or his hatred of anyone having fun without him.

“Oh, if you’re hungry, I can make you dinner if you like,” Erik suddenly remarked, cheerful and helpful. That hadn’t taken him long. “Or we can order out. A new Thai place opened up and they do delivery. It’s supposed to be very good. What do you say?”

“I’m fine with this, thanks.”

“Well, if you’re sure… I still might order in an hour or two, if you change your mind.”

They fell into silence and Christine started smearing peanut butter and honey onto her bread, all the while forcing down the urge to unleash her fury at his ability to be so casual. But Erik persisted.

“You look nice today,” he said quietly.

This prompted a long, hard stare from her. “I look like a hobo.”

“I like your hobo look.”

He offered her a smile, which she refused to acknowledge. His voice was so _soft_. Her hand clenched around the butter knife.

God, she felt dirty.

As she stood there, Edgar and the Roomba narrowly avoided colliding with her legs and she glanced down with bemusement. The cat, lurched from his trance, stared at her as if wondering how she had the gall not to notice him coming, before the vacuum conveyed him to another corner of the room.

“Glad to see you two playing nicely together for once,” she remarked to neither the cat nor the husband.

“You missed the drama earlier.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. “When he first saw it, he threw a hissy fit, you might say, and I feared all was headed for… _catastrophe_ before he recognized they were perfect for one another. They’ve only just now made friends.”

He eyed her expectantly, but Christine sighed quietly and averted her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood even at the best of times.

“Oh, alright, not my best admittedly, but that was worth a tiny smile, wasn’t it?” he cajoled.

“Not even close.”

His eyes grew somber and he set down his screwdriver to study her face. “Is something the matter?”

Christine stared back at him, avoiding his eyes, and felt her gaze harden the longer she watched him. Yes, Erik, what could possibly be the matter?

Admittedly, she’d done this. She’d been the one responsible, the one to initiate it, so he wasn’t entirely to blame... But surely he didn’t actually think she had _wanted_ to do it. That had been the whole point.

She struggled to keep frustration and self-loathing from her expression.

This had been such a stupid idea.

“What are you doing?”  She rapidly changed the subject, slapping the top piece of bread on her sandwich.

It seemed like a natural enough question, but when his eyes lit up, she immediately regretted not discussing the weather instead.

“Oh, a few things, actually. That one over there—” He pointed towards Edgar’s Roomba. “—I’m writing a more efficient cleaning algorithm and brought it upstairs to test in differently-shaped rooms. Though I think I’ll ultimately keep it upstairs for the cat room and your bedroom, where we need it most. And this one?” He fondly stroked the electronic guts on the table before him. “Just give me a moment to put this back together and you’ll see...”

“Okay,” was her unenthusiastic response as she went to the fridge to pour herself some soy milk. She heard him quickly clicking pieces of metal and plastic together, mumbling to himself under his breath. Even before they’d met face-to-face—as it were—she’d always known he was geeky. It’d been so easy for him to slip off on a tangent about something or other, and she’d always thought it had been so quirky and charming. Now it just irritated the hell out of her.

Erik disrupted her thoughts again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Christine realized she had been scowling intensely at her drink and tried to relax her features. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just... I’m _paws-itive_ you were in a better mood last night.” She glanced up in time to see a slight smile.

That _bastard._

“I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Not even a laugh? You know, you’re really being a bit of a sour-puss today.”

_“Erik.”_

“Alright, sorry.” He had the decency to look slightly ashamed and looked away with a sigh. “Don’t have a kitten.”

Edgar, now drifting past the breakfast table, nonchalantly lifted a paw to his mouth and began grooming.

_Bastard, bastard, bastard._

Christine moved to sit at the kitchen counter to eat her food, for which she no longer had an appetite. She grimaced, shifting for a comfortable position on the barstool.

In some ways, it could be worse. A child interested in the same things as him she could deal with, at least. Science and technology paid more than just about anything these days, so if any offspring of theirs had his brain instead of hers she wouldn’t be terribly upset. Though neither of them had ever gone to college—she never had the drive—Erik, at least, would have been smart enough if he had wanted to.

So long as manipulation and cruelty didn’t come with Erik’s intellect, everything might be okay.

Raoul, on the other hand, had actually graduated from Yale, she remembered. After his undergrad—it hurt to realize, but Christine had never really been invested enough to commit to memory what his major had been; it was something that sounded boring and businesslike—his brother had given him a job in their rather respectable family business. He’d been an impressive young man.

“Well, perhaps this will make you smile.”

Christine glanced wearily over her shoulder to see Erik setting the Roomba on the floor. It looked entirely normal except the top was completely covered in rows of LED lights. With one long finger, he dramatically pressed a button and stood back. The Roomba played an 8-bit start-up theme she didn’t immediately recognize until the robot began to move; suddenly yellow LED bulbs lit up to animate a Pac-Man game sprite that munched in time with its forward motion.

Erik made a sound of personal amusement. After a few seconds, with a glance to make sure she was watching, walked after it to switch it off. The yellow Pac-man icon collapsed in on itself in an 8-bit wail of despair, like it had touched a ghost, then went dark.

“That’s the shutdown sequence when it’s finished cleaning.” An unmistakable grin showed beyond the edge of the mask and his eyes searched her expression for some sort of approval. “What do you think, hmm?”

Christine stared at him, both eyebrows raised, searching for words. “That’s… um… So, what’s the point?”

“What’s the point?” His eyes widened in astonishment. “Because I can. Isn’t that reason enough?”

She turned away to continue eating her lunch-almost-dinner. “You’re really breaking some new ground there, Asimov.”

At least she should be grateful that her Bond Villain husband chose to squander his genius on stupid household projects instead of death rays and floors that opened up into crocodile pools. Baby-proofing the house would be a nightmare otherwise.

Just then, Christine realized the kitchen was pleasantly devoid of any snappy comebacks from her husband, though the Wagner was louder than it had been before. At the breakfast nook table, Erik brooded; a dull glare in his eyes while he returned his tools one by one to the black leather case. Then he snapped it shut with more force than required. The laptop, too.

“I don’t know why I even bother, when you’re so determined to be in a foul mood.”

The petulance in his voice made her smile ever so slightly. Then it became a full-blown smirk. “Good question.”

She leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him.

Without warning, Erik got to his feet, snatched up the Pac-man Roomba from the floor and hurled it into the trash can under the sink. Then, he yanked the bag out of the bin and tied it off so forcefully he nearly tore the plastic. It wasn’t even half full.

She flinched. She knew exactly what the problem was, but it felt irritating enough, and he deserved it. “What’s the matter with you?”

He dropped the trash bag by the back door. Something shattered in the bottom. “Why do you care? It’s only a stupid toy you can’t see the point of, isn’t it?”

“I meant… ugh, never mind.”

“Never mind _what?”_ He turned on her with a distinct sneer.

Why was she always the one that felt stupid when he decided to get melodramatic?

“Nothing. Sorry for bothering you.”

“No, _sorry for bothering you,”_ he snapped, snatching up the trash bag and storming out into the backyard, but not before slamming the door behind him.

...No, really. How genetic _was_ paranoia or borderline sociopathy or all the other disorders Erik insisted he didn’t have?

She carefully relined the trash can—feeling the oddest sense of satisfaction as she did so—and dumped her half-eaten PB&J into it, before turning and heading back upstairs to her room.

There was something wrong with her husband, she knew that. And not just one something—many somethings. And based on the vague sketches he shared of his life, she had always assumed he was a product of bad environment; but now…

Locking her door behind her, she heard him return inside courtesy of yet another slammed door downstairs.

She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it before, but now she couldn’t ignore a feeling of dread that settled over her as she contemplated whether every defective thing about him could be heritable and no amount of love and proper parenting could change that. Somehow, in all her desperate longing and planning, that reality hadn’t intruded into her happy fantasies of clutching smiling, gurgling infants to her chest or imagining golden-haired babies crawling aggressively after Edgar.

Now she imagined teenagers who never grew out of their tantrums, children who didn’t listen, or--worst of all--becoming the same tired, neglectful parent she imagined Erik’s mother had been. A dreadful image of herself in fifteen years entered her head. She’d be exhausted, prematurely grey, depressed, and still stuck with her child’s father—no, no, that wouldn’t do at all; his title would have to be Donor or Basement Man or something—Oh, God, the whole thing was going to be a mess.

She could be the best mother in the world and Erik would ruin it without even trying. He was good at that.

Christine crawled under the rumpled blankets of her bed and stared numbly at the television.

She was, of course, ignoring the most obvious potential disaster--that the baby might inherit Erik’s appearance and that… that was something she would stress about later, if it came to that.

Like a lot of other things that ought to have occurred to her sooner, Christine knew this so-called “accident” was hers as she had intended it to be Erik’s.

Who got pregnant on the first try, anyway?

  


 //

  


A little while later, Christine—tired of cheap alien effects and the Doctor Who theme—crept downstairs as quietly as she could and moved for the front door. She had shed her hoodie for modest jeans, a high-necked top, and a cardigan, and felt more than a little respectable. With her house key in her pocket, he wouldn’t hear her leave for some fresh air if she managed to be discreet enough.

But of course, no such luck.

“Where are you going?”

Erik stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the entrance hall. He must have been standing there the whole time. His arms were crossed, but he didn’t look angry. Yet.

“For a walk.”

“It’s getting late.”

“I’m not going far.” She pulled her phone out of her back pocket and held it up for his inspection, to prove she had it.

“I’d prefer you didn’t, Christine.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You can call me if you’re worried. I’ll be home before it’s dark.”

“I am worried now, Christine.” Erik’s mouth was a thin line, and he’d begun to carefully enunciate each syllable in a trembling voice.

Her stomach contracted. She suddenly felt a little hysterical. “I need some space.”

“If it would help, I’ll go to the basement. What about that instead?”

His tone was suddenly so conciliatory it made her mouth tighten, immediately on edge. It wasn’t quite fury that prickled down her spine, but it was close.

“If you love me, let me go out,” she intoned softly.

His eyes widened behind the mask. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“I thought such cheap tactics were beneath you.”

Really? Where had he been all summer?

“You thought wrong. If you love me,” she repeated again in the darkest tone she could summon, “let me go out.”

His shoulders hunched and Christine stood still as a deer, watching him, almost hoping his anxiety would manifest itself as rage, not grovelling, so she would have an excuse for conflict. She could run outside and if he followed, the neighbors might see. No matter what, she won.

But, to her annoyance, he simply pulled his phone from his pocket. He turned the screen to face her; a timer was set.

“You’ll be back in forty-five minutes,” he growled resentfully, “or I will bring you back myself and you will not like that.”

 

  
  
//

 

 

Christine finally escaped to the beach that, due to Erik’s infuriating clinginess, she’d seen very little of despite its proximity. She loved the ocean, but had always lived in land-locked locations. Chicago was the closest she had ever gotten to living near a large body of water, but even then it wasn’t the same and she had rarely gotten to see the lake anyway. And now, she certainly didn’t want to think about how carefully her preferences had been considered when this house was purchased.

Five bedrooms. Two people and a cat. That was far too much space, even he had to admit that.

She was suddenly afraid; it really was dysfunction breeding dysfunction from both gene pools. Erik couldn’t shoulder all the blame. As much as she adored her father, he’d had an addictive personality. He’d allowed grief to ravage him mentally and physically. He’d had depression and died from cancer.

And Christine knew she wasn’t much better. She functioned, perhaps, but she’d also been the kind of stupid that got people killed—the kind of stupid where inviting an unseen, almost-anonymous Internet acquaintance into her life had seemed like not just a good idea but a _brilliant_ one. Sort of like tricking her unstable husband into having unprotected sex to conceive a child she knew he didn’t want.

Maybe she hadn’t changed as much as she thought she had.

Maybe they should just get ten more cats.

The weather was warmer than she expected. While normally she’d have minded the sand getting everywhere, she plopped down onto it anyway without a second thought. An excuse for another hot, long, thorough shower, if nothing else, and an attempt to do her own laundry without Erik swooping in to take over.

The sun was only just beginning to set. She glanced at her phone and realized she had less time than she thought. but she couldn’t really care less if she tried. Let him fume, let him rage. He was good at spitting empty words like they actually did something. She’d stopped caring. That was comforting, at least.

He’d probably be drinking by the time she came back in. Good. No more conversation, no more friggin’ cat puns. He’d maybe watch a movie and pass out on the couch, on the floor somewhere, or, hopefully, in his bed behind a closed door. She’d be locking her bedroom door tonight. The last thing she needed was to wake up and find him there.

Eugh.

  
  
  


_“Do you want kids?”_

Raoul’s voice in her mind—still so crystal-clear—was the last she expected to hear. It had been an innocent first-date question, asked in a booth in a Japanese restaurant, between Instagramming their food and taking a few selfies together.

Erik never would have done that.

_“Maybe one day.”_

What she’d meant was yes. Absolutely, yes. But that wasn’t something that a then-nineteen year old was meant to say. Certainly not to the unattached twenty-three year old she was trying to impress.

_“How ‘bout you?”_

_“Mm, I think so.”_

Sweet relief.

_“But I mean, I don’t know. I’m still so young. I need to live life a little first.”_

  
  


 

Raoul—charming, beautiful man though he’d been—had had this habit of parroting things he’d been taught, without realizing what he was doing. That had been one such time. And the look in his eyes had said he had no intention of living a little first. He’d found her, she’d found him, and it had been perfect.

She and Raoul would have had beautiful children—all blonde-haired and blue-eyed without question. Sweet, precious darlings who would have loving aunts and uncles. If she had married Raoul, she might have had one already by now.

She missed Raoul so much.

Christine no longer fought her urge to cry.

The wind was picking up again, but it was cool. The clouds were turning pink in the sunset, and the water was glimmering. It was beautiful. But Christine couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so empty. Her wedding day, maybe.

Erik, too, had once brought her so much happiness. Not a day went by that they didn’t talk late into the night and often, when she walked home from work after dark, he kept her company on the phone. They Skyped, they texted, and for almost six months they were almost inseparable--or as inseparable as two Internet friends could be.

  


 

_“Aside from being on your poor, tired feet all day, how are you liking the job?” he had asked her once._

_“Shoosh, Mr Desk Job. It's pretty good. I'm just not used to, like, doing stuff. It's kinda lame.”_

_“Mr Desk Job was merely expressing sympathy for poor Miss Barista as service jobs are awful. It can be hard initially getting into the habit of doing things after being at rest for so long, but I imagine you'll perk up after a couple weeks. Is everyone treating you well?”_

_“Well enough.”_

_“Only well enough?”_

_“Well I mean it's, like... I don't know. How was your day, anyway?”_

_“Far less interesting and eventful than yours, I promise. Is everything alright, Christine?”_

_“Everything's fine.”_

_“Do you promise? I'd hate to think of you being mistreated and all alone in that city…”_

_“No, not mistreated! That's dramatic. Just... I don't fit yet I guess. I don't know.”_

_“Ah, that's natural to feel. But a pretty, intelligent young lady like you will make friends quickly. I'm sure of it. You'll have a nice, familiar group of workmates in no time.”_

_“You!” And she had laughed. “I mean I'm sure I'll get there in the end, but... yeah. I don't know. This is all scary.”_

_“You're very brave for striking out on your own like this. I'm very proud of you, you know that?”_

  


 

There had been a time when even a few short words from him could fix an awful day.

Christine had been giddy when, shortly before they’d come face to face--shortly before everything turned to crap--Erik had timidly admitted that he may have had a slight crush on her. “I like you quite a bit more than I’ve let on,” were his exact words. She’d blushed desperately with a smile threatening to split her face in two.

There had been a time, too, she remembered, when the idea of choosing between her Internet best friend and the cute boy who asked her on dates at work had kept her up at night. Both were charming, both made her laugh, both made her feel so warm.

But Raoul had never hidden his puppy-dog crush from her, nor anything else for that matter, while Erik showed up at her apartment in a mask while in the same breath promising transparency. And though Erik had finally acknowledged every lie he told and misconception he encouraged, he had made the choice so  obvious.

She missed Raoul so much.

The light had almost completely faded from the sky now; stars were beginning to prick the darkness. For a wild moment she felt like diving into the ocean and swimming for her life. But it faded, and she felt caged. And watched.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He was a dark shadow standing at the top of the hill that ran to the beach, arms crossed. In one hand she saw the blinking light of what must have been her timer running out.

But she didn’t feel her normal compulsion to bend to his rules. It was just going to happen. She was comfortable where she was. Trying to pretend he wasn’t there, she turned to look back at the sea.

A moment later, she heard him approaching, and saw him standing in her peripheral vision. There was no such thing as comfortable silence with someone like Erik. It was always tense, expectant—pregnant, she thought, and suppressed a bitter chuckle. She heard him taking a breath, and for a moment she expected to hear the relentless outpouring of ridiculous, pointless apologies he always spewed when he deigned to believe he’d done something wrong. But only if he believed it.

Which didn’t seem to be the case tonight. He was still silent. Christine sighed and cradled her face between her hands. She’d been an idiot.

Well, no, that was wrong. She was an idiot. She hadn’t stopped.

“Come inside,” he said suddenly, his voice icy. She glanced up at him. He was not, in fact, looking philosophically out to sea as she’d thought. He was staring. At her.

Suddenly the cool wind felt cold.

Christine got to her feet and brushed herself off, avoiding his eyes. She’d known there’d be pain, and she hadn’t been shocked to see blood between her legs the night before when she’d scrubbed herself over, but nobody had mentioned how hard eye-contact was to maintain after a first time.

She followed him back into the house, unconsciously shucking off her cardigan at the relative heat. She set about making herself a coffee—all that existential angst was thirsty work—and they didn’t exchange another word before Erik disappeared into some nook or other, presumably to forget his troubles and get hammered.

For once, she had a distinct desire to do the same.


	9. Chapter 9

"Christine can't talk right now, sweetheart."

Hilary was, aside from being a brilliant friend, a brilliant mother. Her voice was soft and warm on the other side of the door, and Christine heard Katelyn sadly trudging off down the hall before Hilary came back into the room, a look of concern plastered on her face.

"Now, honey, have you ever used one of these before?"

Hilary had purchased a pregnancy test for her on the quiet after her nausea had become persistent.

"No, I've never–" She cleared her throat. "We've never had a scare before."

Hilary gave a slight smile. "It's not a scare when you want it."

Christine didn't reply.

Hilary sat on the bed next to her and handed the box over. Christine was still clinging to the increasingly hysterical hope that she'd just been suffering from a particularly persistent stomach bug for the past week.

With Erik, at home, they'd fallen back into a pattern of habitually ignoring each other with periodic questions from Erik to ascertain if she needed anything from the grocery store. It made her feel terrible, but she'd intentionally not stopped drinking coffee. Maybe that would make it go away. And, she'd been telling herself, the first missed cycle could have been a fluke. She'd never been regular. Upheavals messed with hormones. It was science.

The second missed cycle, however, she couldn't ignore. And then there was the persistent nausea, and the exhaustion, and for the first time in two months, she went to see Hilary. Without her phone.

"Does Jack know there's a possibility?" Hilary's expression had softened.

"We've spoken a little, but he really doesn't want it."

In truth, the only words they'd exchanged in the past weeks were "Do you need some more soy milk?" followed by a curt yes or no, as the case may have been.

If nothing else, the attempted conception had at least gotten Erik out of her hair.

"Don't you worry about that," said Hilary, although how that was meant to be comforting in the least was a complete mystery.

After a few more moments of blessedly comfortable silence, Christine excused herself to the bathroom to do the test. As she was pulling the stick from the box, it fell from her shaking hands.

"Friggin' idiot," she berated herself as she bent to pick it up, knocking her head soundly on the corner of the bathroom cabinet when she stood back up. She rubbed the spot fiercely and cursed.

It was not her day.

She did what she had to do, and the waiting was hellish. If the ground had spontaneously decided to split and swallow her whole, never to be seen again, she would scarcely have minded.

This sensation was amplified tenfold when she finally looked down at the test.

Positive.

Crap.

She stood for a moment in utter stillness, tears stinging in the corners of her eyes, and leaned against the cabinet, rubbing her still twinging head. There'd be no comfort from Erik, there'd be nothing Hilary could say, and her family was far too far away to help. She was screwed, and now this ill-conceived child was screwed too. She was such an idiot.

Realizing dreams wasn't meant to bring about this much existential terror, was it? When she'd signed the marriage certificate, had Erik felt the same drop in his stomach, the same eye-widening, mortifying realization that suddenly he had exactly what he wanted?

She had what she had planned for and dreamed about and she'd never been so scared.

Christine suspected he had no idea what he wanted. Dreams were all well and good, but she was beginning to think that the realities of married life and children were a great deal different to dreams of the same. She probably wasn't the wife Erik had dreamed of, and now… now there was this.

When Christine came out of the bathroom clutching that damn little stick, tears in the corners of her eyes, Hilary held her and rubbed her back and assured her that it wasn't the end of the world, that there were ways around it, that everything would be fine. So convincing was she that Christine's stomach didn't fall until she was on the front doorstep, her keys in her hand.

What in God's name had she been thinking?

She steeled herself, took a breath, and entered, hanging up her purse on the coat rack by the door and rubbing her still-red eyes tiredly. The test was securely in a zip-lock bag tucked into an inner pocket of her purse.

If she had hoped to slip into the house without Erik's notice, she was disappointed. Like a dog waiting for her return, he was sitting on the sofa nearest the window in the front room that afforded a perfect view of the porch. A notebook of score paper lay open in his lap, in which he was scribbling industriously—at least until she breezed by towards the kitchen to make coffee. Then he tossed it aside.

"Where have you been?" Erik quietly asked her. Before she could blink, he stood in the doorway to the kitchen, blocking the most direct pathway to the stairs.

"Hilary's." She made a show of being distracted by her coffee machine, turning the switch on for the steam. "Why?"

"I like to keep track of these things. And how is Hilary?" He paused, then added hastily, "and the kids?"

"She's good. Kids just got home from school." A beat. "Why do you care?"

"I am attempting to be more engaged. Is there something the matter with that?"

Christine turned the steam off again and poured her drink calmly. "No."

Emptying the remainder of her milk from its jug into the sink, she moved to sit at the breakfast table. She suddenly didn't have the heart to actually drink her coffee anymore. She was hurting someone who wasn't herself now. She couldn't.

"Why were you over at her place for so long, anyway, if the kids just got home?" he asked. He leaned back against the counter, arms folded over his chest, his gazed fixed on her.

"She's my friend too." She wouldn't look at him now, instead staring into her coffee.

"That still doesn't answer my question."

A small sigh. "I needed to talk to her."

"What was so important that a phone call wouldn't suffice?"

"I... um, I had to do something." Her cheeks were burning now. The steam rising from her coffee made her think of smoke.

He canted his head and asked slowly, patiently, "...Which was?"

She was staring down at her untouched coffee. "Nothing."

"You disappeared to Hilary's with an urgent need to do...  _nothing?_ "

Cheeks now most certainly red, Christine mumbled something below a reasonably audible level Maybe he'd dismiss it. Maybe he'd leave her alone. Maybe she was dreaming.

He leaned a little closer, eyes narrowing slightly. "Come again?"

She squeezed her fingernails into the fleshy palm of her hand and didn't wake up. But she had to be dreaming. It was just a nightmare, induced by the heat or too much caffeine. That was it.

"Um. Just a... a pregnancy test."

Silence. Absolute, all encompassing silence.

Erik visibly stiffened, his mouth pressing into a thin, tight line, and his eyes, previously bemused, were now hard and gleaming. For an uncomfortably long moment, he stared at her. Nothing moved but the suddenly measured rise and fall of his chest. His neck had gone very pale.

"Pregnancy test," he echoed softly, a slight tremor to his voice. His mouth twitched into a grim, almost nervous smile. "Now... I confess to being rather, ah... ignorant in the realm of women... but it is my understanding that there is only one reason why a woman would require a pregnancy test. Am I wrong, Christine? I would very much like to be wrong..."

His tone was unnervingly patient and understanding. She frowned with sudden confusion, but still didn't look at him.

"Um... no, you're not..."

"I see." Aside from the tremor, he spoke with unassailable calm. "So that means—and again, correct me if I'm wrong—you, for some reason, believed you might be pregnant. Why, may I ask, is that a thought that crossed your mind?"

That certainly wasn't the reaction she was expecting.

He should have been crying. Apologizing. Something.

She was trembling. "Um... it's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

Erik straightened up and slowly walked towards the breakfast table to press his hands against its surface. His fingers tensed, turning his first knuckles white. With a dark and unblinking, wide-eyed stare, he continued to watch her.

"No. No, it isn't obvious to me, Christine," he hissed. "Because... in order to suspect you might be pregnant... that means you've done something  _extremely regretful_..."

She managed to steel herself enough to glance at his eyes before looking down again. It was their first eye contact since before… well, it was a conception, wasn't it?

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I know, it was really stupid. I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry."

"Stupid?" Erik sounded almost on the verge of laughter before his hands balled into fists and he slammed them down onto the table with a snarl, enough to make her coffee slosh.

She flinched and smothered a dismayed sound of shock.

"Oh, you have gone  _so_   _far beyond stupid!_  You know, Christine... It's funny, I thought... I sort of expected something like this might happen, but not... not so soon. Perhaps in a decade, I thought, oh she'll step out on you, Erik. Some handsome thing will catch her eye and it will be all over because she's never been able to resist pretty boys, never had any self control..."

Suddenly he lunged at her, grabbing the back of her chair and twisted it to face him, trapping her between his arms. She stared up into the mask.

Her eyes widened. He didn't remember. Anger at her manipulation she could understand—forgive—but…

Oh.

How drunk had he been that night? Really, really drunk. And what happened to drunk people? They forgot things, sometimes.

Shit.

That would explain why he'd been such an oblivious asshole lately.

Did he really remember nothing?

"What? No, I... I didn't..."

"Don't you  _fucking lie to me_." His voice had taken on a metallic growl. He leaned down to sneer into her face. For once she couldn't smell alcohol on his breath and somehow that exacerbated her fear all the more. "So who was it, hmm? Was he worth it? Oh, I hope he was because I'm going to fucking castrate him, and you are never,  _ever_  leaving my house again. You thought twenty years was long? Try  _the rest of your fucking life_  because you couldn't manage to stay faithful to your husband when you  _promised him_  you would!"

She lowered her eyes. Of all the things to even suggest, when she left the house even more rarely than he did, and only today without express permission… "I'm not lying! It was you!"

Erik laughed darkly and he grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her to look up at him. "How stupid do you think I am? Based on the shit you've expected me to believe in the past, darling... apparently your opinion has not changed."

"It's true," she said, voice small. Tears budded in the corners of her eyes. She tugged at his wrist in a vain attempt to get him to let go. This wasn't at all how it was supposed to happen.

"It's true?" he simpered in an eerily accurate impression of her voice before his lip curled back into a snarl of disgust. His other hand snatched her upper arm with a vice-like grip. "Bull-fucking-shit. I do not appreciate when you lie to my face. I would never...  _ever_... touch you like that—you know I wouldn't! I would never do that to you. I've promised you ad nauseum... and like you'd even allow it in the first place!" He laughed again, full of bitter self-deprecation, and his grip tightened. "I really... I really thought better of you than this, Christine."

"You were drunk," she insisted, pushing at his chest in an attempt to get up. Her arm was beginning to go numb. "Erik, you're hurting me."

But he didn't let go, instead hauling her roughly to her feet. " _I'm_  hurting  _you_? Really. And how do you think I feel, eh? When have I ever laid a hand on you when I was drunk? Here, I'll help you with the answer— _never!_ "

"Who was it then, genius?" Her voice was trembling despite her efforts to the contrary. "Since you know everything about me?"

"Oh, I'll find out soon enough!" he snapped, eyes glimmering. He jerked her towards the hallway. "You have lost every single fucking privilege I've given you, I hope you understand that. I should have thought you had learned this lesson a long time ago... but now you'll be earning them back, one by one. Just like old times.  _Won't that be fun?_ "

Like a root canal.

Despite her anger, her voice shook. "Why don't you believe me? Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"I do, actually... I really do. Before, I gave you the benefit of the doubt, but not anymore."

She continued to struggle a little desperately against him, but he thrust his hand into her hair and gripped near the scalp. He jerked her head back to hiss in her ear.

"Now I see why you liked  _him_  so much. Shared inability to learn, utter disregard for the consequences of satiating your need for instant gratification..."

Christine cried out. "It was you, I told you already. Get off me!"

Ignoring her protest, he began to push her towards the stairs, his grip still firm and painful. "I told you already, I don't fucking believe you. I'm too careful for that..."

"What do I have to do?" Tears of frustration began to roll down her face. It struck her faintly that he probably shouldn't be treating a pregnant woman so roughly. "I can prove it, just tell me how."

"Nothing. There is  _absolutely nothing_  you can do! If such a disgusting thing had been done, you never would have let me get away with it because, as you know, I can't even ask to hold your hand without you laughing in contempt at me for it! I have  _never_  asked for more than a kiss…" Suddenly his voice thickened with frustrated tears. "...And even then..."

They reached the top of the stairs and Erik shoved her into her room. He loomed in the threshold, hands curling into claws as he gripped either side of the doorway.

"The test was positive," Christine murmured quietly, running a hand through her hair and feeling the tears rolling down her face.

"It was, was it? More's the pity." A sneer curled under the edge of the mask. "I'll be taking you to a clinic as soon as possible."

A flash of resolve burned away her fear, leaving nothing but an intense desire to keep him as far away as possible, to strike him if he came closer. He could hurt her and trap her in this damned house and lock all the doors and still have the audacity to accuse her of cheating, but he would not take the only thing she still wanted. Not when she finally had it.

"No," she said stonily. "You won't. You can't make me do that."

"I can and I will, darling. I'm very good at influencing people to do things they do not wish to do. So I warn you not to challenge me. You will not like the results."

She put her arms around herself protectively. "If you even try to make me, I..." Her lips tightened into a thin line. "I'll... hurt myself. Call the police and tell them you did it."

"Tell me how you envision doing that."

Christine automatically thrust her fingers into her pocket for her phone, only to find empty space. She glanced to Erik, who canted his head, then extended his hand to her, palm up. In it, she noticed with horror, was her cellphone. It had been on her nightstand when she left for Hilary's.

Before she could move, he overturned his hand with a ripple of his fingers. When he showed her his palm again, it was empty, as if her phone had disappeared into thin air forever.

"You can't keep secrets from me, no matter what you do," he sneered quietly.

"Leave me alone. Don't talk to me. Ever."

"You lost the right to make demands of me when you decided to have a fucking affair behind my back. I will be making the appointment as soon as is feasibly possible. You don't get to keep the little bastard when it shouldn't exist in the first place."

"I'm not having an affair!" she snapped. "I only ever go to Hilary's when I leave the house. You know that. You  _know_  that!"

"I do. I also know Rob is there." He'd gone pale again and his teeth grit. "Or even others. I don't keep track of who goes in and out of their home. Perhaps I should."

Rob? She thought he was having an affair with  _Rob?_ No offense to Hilary, but ew. Ew. No.

"Please don't do that to them... They're good people, they wouldn't do that. They're your friends..."

"No, they're  _your_  friends, not mine. If Hilary bought you the test, then she's accomplice to the deception as well. She cannot be trusted."

"She knows we weren't planning kids." She stood to move towards him, wiping semi-dried tears from her eyes. "I know it sounds like a lie. I know. But you were drunk a few weeks ago, and I..." She chewed her lip. "I left before you woke up. That's it. I promise. I swear on my life."

"And you let me get away with it?" he scoffed. "That doesn't sound like you at all. Your promises mean nothing to me, Christine, as you have an uncanny ability to break them as spectacularly as possible. Brava, darling, as usual."

He took a step back into the hall, and she rushed to stand in the doorway.

"Just listen to me! I'm not lying!"

Teeth bared, he shoved her back into the room so forcefully she staggered. "No! I'm done listening to you and your bullshit! This conversation is over!"

"What do I have to do, Erik? I'll do anything..."

"There is no longer anything you could that I could possibly desire," he hissed.

Without offering her a chance to respond, he seized the doorknob and slammed the door shut. Picture frames rattled against the wall, and then again when his fist smashed against the closed door. She heard a muffled shriek of rage.

Christine grit her teeth and glared at the door under which she could still see his shadow lurking. Her hand brushed over her stomach, protectively.

"Sorry that your father is an  _asshole_ ," she said, loud enough that Erik could hear.

That met with another slammed fist against the door and the exterior deadbolt of her bedroom slid into place. A second later she could hear him stampeding rapidly down the stairs, his footsteps growing quieter and quieter until there was no sound left.

Shortly after, she revised that statement, not realizing how much noise the air conditioner made, nor how omnipresent the thrum of electrical devices was through the house until the power unexpectedly went out a moment later. After that, there really was no sound left, just her pounding heart and the crash of the ocean outside.

Christine sighed, a few more infuriated tears slipping out. Exhausted, she laid down on her bed in the gloom, arms around her middle as she stared out at the light coming through the windows.

This child was hers to keep and her bastard husband wouldn't take that from her.

There were scissors in the nightstand.


	10. Chapter 10

Several silent hours passed and everything was still dead. At first, she had curled up on her bed to doze, then she had hummed to herself while stroking her flat stomach. More than once, Edgar came to whine piteously and rub against the outside of her locked door, confused and annoyed that he was being denied entrance to her bedroom, before wandering off. Poor Edgar.

But as night approached, muggy and hot, the house fell incrementally into complete darkness and Christine sought out her laptop for illumination and distraction. The WiFi was down, of course, but her computer had power enough for at least for a few more hours. It occurred to her she shouldn't squander the battery like this—she couldn't predict how long Erik's tantrum would last—but what else could she do?

Listlessly, she paged through selfies and old Skype logs from happier days.

_[9:40:51 PM] Slenderhands: I don't live anywhere near you, if that's what you're wondering.  
_ _[9:41:04 PM] Christine Daae: Don't you trust me?  
_ _[9:41:33 PM] Slenderhands: Of course I trust you.  
_ _[9:41:47 PM] Christine Daae: Then why don't you want to tell me? :(  
_ _[9:43:41 PM] Slenderhands: I live in the United States.  
_ _[9:44:20 PM] Christine Daae: Then why can't you give me a state name at least? I promise, I don't have the money to come surprise you or something.  
_ _[9:44:35 PM] Slenderhands: I live near the happiest place on Earth.  
_ _[9:45:09 PM] Christine Daae: ... California?  
_ _[9:45:27 PM] Slenderhands: Congratulations, you win a prize!  
_ _[9:45:45 PM] Christine Daae: Was that really so painful?  
_ _[9:45:50 PM] Christine Daae: And it better be a good prize.  
_ _[9:47:30 PM] Slenderhands: What would you like? ;)  
_ _[9:47:48 PM] Christine Daae: Jewels and a car.  
_ _[9:47:53 PM] Slenderhands: What kind?  
_ _[9:51:09 PM] Christine Daae: Very expensive ridiculous shiny ones.  
_ _[9:52:09 PM] Slenderhands: Well, alright. I will send you a bucket of diamonds and… Do you like Maseratis, Christine? I'll send you a Maserati.  
_ _[9:52:43 PM] Christine Daae: A bucket of diamonds? Look, unless I can bathe in them, not good enough.  
_ _[9:53:14 PM] Slenderhands: Do you even have a bathtub?  
_ _[9:53:38 PM] Christine Daae: Nope, so you'll have to take care of that too. Darn my excellent brain.  
_ _[9:56:58 PM] Slenderhands: Oh, fine, if I must. I will buy you a diamond-filled, clawfoot bathtub. Also encrusted with diamonds and other precious stones as well. But first you'll have to show me your apartment so I can get the dimensions right. ;)  
_ _[9:57:33 PM] Christine Daae: Mm, nah. Changed my mind. :)  
_ _[9:59:19 PM] Slenderhands: ...But I just sent in the order. All sales final. Now what am I going to do with this unnecessarily luxurious bathtub? :(  
_ _[10:00:11 PM] Christine Daae: I meant the apartment showing. Worst case scenario, I'll pawn them and have enough money for a coffee machine. ;D  
_ _[10:01:20 PM] Slenderhands: What, you aren't going to show me the apartment? After we worked so hard to find something reasonable... :(  
_ _[10:01:43 PM] Christine Daae: Serves you right. :l  
_ _[10:01:51 PM] Slenderhands: I told you where I lived!  
_ _[10:02:37 PM] Christine Daae: You took too long.  
_ _[10:03:15 PM] Slenderhands: ):  
_ _[10:04:21 PM] Christine Daae: :)  
_ _[10:04:24 PM] Christine Daae: Butthead.  
_ _[10:04:26 PM] Christine Daae: :) :)  
_ _[10:06:10 PM] Slenderhands: What kind of coffee machine costs a bathtub of diamonds anyway?  
_ _[10:06:28 PM] Christine Daae: A nice one. ;)  
_ _[10:07:03 PM] Christine Daae: But seriously I would love to have a plumbed one one day. If I ever actually have my own house, that's Necessary Appliance #1.  
_ _[10:08:08 PM] Slenderhands: If? I'm fairly sure you'll have your own house someday.  
_ _[10:08:37 PM] Christine Daae: I'm not!  
_ _[10:08:45 PM] Slenderhands: Why?  
_ _[10:09:55 PM] Christine Daae: Because I'm poor and lazy and have a terrible work ethic, obviously!  
_ _[10:11:08 PM] Slenderhands: You aren't lazy. You just uprooted to a new state all on your own. That's quite an ordeal.  
_ _[10:11:55 PM] Christine Daae: Yeah, but barring a very very rich husband, I doubt I'll ever have several thousand unused dollars sitting around.  
_ _[10:12:09 PM] Christine Daae: And as for snagging a rich husband: hahaha, no.  
_ _[10:12:45 PM] Slenderhands: Are you in the market for one?  
_ _[10:13:25 PM] Christine Daae: Well, if some gentleman decides I'm marriage material in my gross barista clothes, I'm definitely not going to say no!  
_ _[10:14:26 PM] Slenderhands: What, and you'd marry him solely for his money?  
_ _[10:14:41 PM] Christine Daae: Of course not!  
_ _[10:14:49 PM] Christine Daae: He'd have to have excellent dress sense, too.  
_ _[10:16:26 PM] Slenderhands: Is that all? :p  
_ _[10:17:03 PM] Christine Daae: Mm, a sense of humor wouldn't hurt either. And I mean if he was easy on the eyes I wouldn't complain. ;)  
_ _[10:17:16 PM] Slenderhands: And if he weren't?  
_ _[10:17:46 PM] Christine Daae: It'd have to be a REALLY good sense of humor. :p  
_ _[10:19:39 PM] Slenderhands: So if an old, one-eyed, hunchbacked gentleman with a unibrow and goiter hobbled into your shop and proposed marriage (in a stunning Italian suit), you'd still marry him so long as he was fabulously wealthy with an unmatched sense of humor?  
_ _[10:20:08 PM] Christine Daae: Mm, probably. If he really liked coffee. I could call him Quasi. :p  
_ _[10:20:33 PM] Slenderhands: His name is Coffeemodo, excuse you._

She skipped absently to another log with a quiet sigh. She'd be lying to herself if she said she hadn't had rather a sizeable crush on him when they were still talking online. But then things had gotten so complicated so quickly. Raoul had first asked her out on a date around the same time that Erik had told her he had a crush on her, which, she decided, was either the universe being its usual temperamental self, or Erik trying to stop the development of her relationship.

And then he'd turned up at her front door in a mask and expected her to go along with it. It had been such a mess.

_[8:29:45 PM] Christine Daae: Since we've talked about all these pretty girls you've been chatting up. Pretty aside (like say Hypothetical Girl in fact wasn't actually pretty, you just thought she was), what would a really great girl you'd probably date sometime be like?  
_ _[8:29:50 PM] Christine Daae: Totally innocent question.  
_ _[8:29:51 PM] Christine Daae: :)  
_ _[8:31:03 PM] Slenderhands: Essentially, any one that said yes. ;)  
_ _[8:31:09 PM] Slenderhands: No, I'm kidding. Let me think, ah...  
_ _[8:31:24 PM] Christine Daae: Oh, hilarious. ;)  
_ _[8:38:03 PM] Slenderhands: I would probably date a girl who likes music or at least enough to feign interest when I play for her... and it would be nice if she liked talking to me or at least wanted to talk to me. Anyone who enjoyed my company, really. For me a really great girl would also enjoy quiet nights in, perhaps holding hands, and-this is a deal breaker-she must make an excellent cup of coffee.  
_ _[8:38:33 PM] Christine Daae: I mean, that's pretty much the most important trait, let's be honest. ;)  
_ _[8:38:57 PM] Slenderhands: I'm glad we can agree on that. What about you?  
_ _[8:39:31 PM] Christine Daae: Anybody cashed up and fooled into thinking I'd actually be worth it?  
_ _[8:39:41 PM] Christine Daae: Pretty much that. ;)  
_ _[8:40:02 PM] Slenderhands: Hmm, you know, I think I might know a fellow... Nothing more specific than that?  
_ _[8:40:29 PM] Christine Daae: He'd have to be nice.  
_ _[8:40:48 PM] Christine Daae: And I wouldn't mind if he was smarter than me because most guys are, but... not be a jerk about it.  
_ _[8:40:55 PM] Christine Daae: And nice hair.  
_ _[8:40:59 PM] Christine Daae: Gotta have nice hair.  
_ _[8:41:09 PM] Slenderhands: Define nice hair.  
_ _[8:41:45 PM] Christine Daae: It's a pretty broad spectrum.  
_ _[8:41:54 PM] Christine Daae: Well-styled and not gross. Basically.  
_ _[8:42:49 PM] Slenderhands: That doesn't seem too unreasonable to me. Any deal breakers?  
_ _[8:43:03 PM] Christine Daae: Mmmm...  
_ _[8:43:44 PM] Christine Daae: Despite my sentimental feelings towards the smell of pot and cigarettes, I'm kinda turned off by  
people who use stuff too much. I think that's kinda gross.  
_ _[8:44:09 PM] Christine Daae: And people who are rude to service staff. That's ultimate immediate goodbye forever behavior.  
_ _[8:45:57 PM] Slenderhands: I think these seem like perfectly realistic standards. And you haven't found anybody to fit them yet?  
_ _[8:46:26 PM] Christine Daae: Ehh, not really.  
_ _[8:46:37 PM] Christine Daae: I don't know how interested I am, honestly.  
_ _[8:46:57 PM] Slenderhands: In dating someone?  
_ _[8:47:11 PM] Christine Daae: Yeah.  
_ _[8:47:31 PM] Christine Daae: Because I don't really want to date someone for the sake of dating someone, because I've done that before and it was stupid.  
_ _[8:47:43 PM] Christine Daae: I'd wanna date someone because I liked them and... eh. Nobody nearby.  
_ _[8:48:07 PM] Slenderhands: You wouldn't consider long distance?  
_ _[8:48:36 PM] Christine Daae: I like hugs and eye contact too much for that!  
_ _[8:49:14 PM] Slenderhands: I suppose those are important...  
_ _[8:49:59 PM] Christine Daae: And... I dunno, I'd be kind of... worried. Boyfriend out of sight all the time.  
_ _[8:50:14 PM] Slenderhands: Not even if you trusted him?  
_ _[8:50:48 PM] Christine Daae: I'm not sure. It'd have to happen first.  
_ _[8:51:02 PM] Slenderhands: What would have to happen first?  
_ _[8:52:05 PM] Christine Daae: The me-being-in-an-LDR. Depends on the circumstances, the guy, the people he was friends with, alignment of the stars...  
_ _[8:52:45 PM] Slenderhands: Would it be ideal if he had few to no friends?  
_ _[8:53:02 PM] Christine Daae: The whole concept isn't exactly ideal.  
_ _[8:53:31 PM] Slenderhands: Would you ever be willing to try?  
_ _[8:53:47 PM] Christine Daae: Why do you ask? ;)  
_ _[8:54:12 PM] Slenderhands: A completely innocent question, I assure you. ;)  
_ _[8:54:46 PM] Christine Daae: I might possibly if I liked the guy enough.  
_ _[8:58:10 PM] Slenderhands: And in order to like him enough, he needs to be loaded, blinded by affection, have nice hair, while being kind to service staff and staying away from too many recreational drugs?  
_ _[8:58:28 PM] Slenderhands: Or is this the bare minimum of achievement?  
_ _[8:58:55 PM] Christine Daae: I don't know?  
_ _[8:59:16 PM] Christine Daae: I don't really think about it that much.  
_ _[8:59:38 PM] Slenderhands: Ah, I see.  
_ _[8:59:48 PM] Christine Daae: What?  
_ _[9:01:22 PM] Slenderhands: It's nothing. I think too much about these things. ;)  
_ _[9:01:45 PM] Christine Daae: Things work themselves out sometimes I think. :)_

She truly hadn't seen, at the time, that he liked her. She had wanted to, but her instinct to think the worst of herself was stronger. She had often tried to imagine what would have happened if they'd been in a relationship when they met, if Raoul hadn't been in the picture, but it was useless. There were a million what ifs and they all hurt. For all she knew, things could have ended up exactly the way they were now.

Now, her girlish hopes for money and romance aside, all she really wanted was her baby. And, perhaps, a respectful husband. Eventually.

Gingerly, Christine rubbed the sore place on her upper arm where Erik had grabbed her.

At that instant, she became suddenly aware of a distant whirring as the house hummed back to life. All around her, the digital readouts in her room began to flash insistently. A few moments later, the deadbolt at her door slid back, followed by a tentative knock.

Christine quickly shut the laptop, pushed it away, and curled up on her side..

"Christine?"

It was Erik, as if it could be anybody else.

Behind her, the door cracked open and a slit of light cut through the darkness along the wall. She tensed and shifted closer to her nightstand. Two years ago, in an attempt to rescue her from a scheduled Christmas Eve abduction, Raoul had once managed to beat the crap out of Erik with just his fists, so he wasn't invincible. She might be weaker and smaller than Raoul, but armed with a pair of scissors…

Erik wouldn't be expecting it. Not from her.

"Go away," she murmured.

"Christine… can we talk?" he whispered in a thick voice. He had been crying. The door opened wider, letting in a flood of light from the hallway and silhouetting his thin shadow on the wall. "Please..."

She sat up, wrapping her arms protectively around herself and staring at the floor. Again, pain twinged where Erik had grabbed her and, in the light, she could see a band of yellow and purple around her upper arm.

"I don't want to talk to you," she muttered through grit teeth, rubbing her sore muscle gingerly.

Erik suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, then released it in a low moan of horror, and she heard him drop to his knees beside the bed. "Oh, Christine, your arm..."

She said nothing to that, keeping her back to him.

"I know you don't want to talk to me," he breathed tearfully after a moment. "Why would you? But I need to apologize... please let me..."

Awkwardly, she shifted away from him. "No. Go away."

"Please," he begged, choking on tears. "I'm so sorry... for the way I treated you, I see how badly I hurt you, I am so sorry, Christine... I was wrong from the beginning... I made a terrible miscalculation and I am so, so sorry... I should have listened to you..."

"Well you didn't. I don't know why I'm surprised."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He had folded his hands over the back of his neck, head bent so dramatically he was staring at his knees.

"Fucking waste of life I am, I know that, I've always known that…You weren't lying to me... because you're such a sweet, good, honest girl... I'm so sorry... What I accused you of, you would never do that to me... You would never deceive me..."

"Oh, you realized that, did you? Well done, asshole. Go away."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me what happened?"

A vague shrug. "I didn't want to make you freak out. Especially not if..." Her hand rested on her stomach. "I didn't think you'd decide it meant I was cheating."

"What else was I supposed to think?" He crawled closer and rested his cheek against the bed, coughing on his sobs. "That was never, ever, ever supposed to happen—always such an impossibility—I can't believe it... It's still hard to, I... I'm so fucking sorry, Christine. I wish you'd told me instead of letting me carry on as if this horrific thing never happened…!" He grabbed the back of his neck and dug his nails into his skin.

"I preferred not to think about it too much," she said coolly, now fully turning to watch him haughtily. Her hands trembled.

"You still should have told me so I could... so I could... " He shook his head, knuckles white. "I don't even understand how it happened, I... I listened to the conversation and... I'm an utterly reprehensible piece of shit for what I've done, I know... I can't even imagine being... being in your place, that was fucking disgusting of me... I'm so sorry, Christine..."

She looked away from his excessive display of remorse only to see her phone miraculously resting on the edge of the bed, evidently returned when she wasn't looking. But she refused to touch it, nor even acknowledge it.

Since the beginning, even when turned off, her phone had been Erik's primary tool for surveillance. Raoul's phone, too. Neither of them could go anywhere or say anything without Erik's knowing. To leave their phones deliberately behind or remove the battery would invoke a firestorm of disproportionate retaliation. Her calls and internet traffic would forever be logged, she knew, but the  _constant_   _recording_ while she was at home doing nothing should have ended when she became his wife.

Christine felt a cold flicker of violation. Maybe that's what was in the basement: huge servers devoted to logging every precious minute of ambient sound in this house to use against her in arguments. She wouldn't put it past him.

For once, though, she was at least mildly grateful for his obsessive, invasive, utterly unreasonable eavesdropping... because it clearly worked against him, too.

Christine folded her hands together in her lap and stared down at them. "Yeah," she muttered. "Doesn't matter. It's already happened."

Erik leaned heavily against the bed and stared up at her with puffy, red eyes. "It won't ever happen again, I promise. Never, ever, ever again, I give you my word. I am  _so sorry_..."

"Yeah," she repeated. "If you say so."

He watched her a few seconds longer before a new rush of tears welled up. Resting his forehead on his knees, he dissolved into a series of choking, keening sobs, which he smothered behind his hands.

Christine sighed and moved to dangle her legs over the edge of the bed.

Usually when he cried, it filled her with a terrible sense of guilt. If she were stronger, if she were more willing to look past his awful behavior, if she made herself love him or at least pretend to, then he wouldn't need to cry like that anymore. It was entirely within her power. But she couldn't do it. And yet no matter how often he made her fear for her life—or worse, made it feel not worth living—she always felt awful about it. Except for now. Now, she only felt tired and empty.

"It's okay," she said blankly. "You don't have to cry."

"How can I not?" he demanded heatedly. Uncurling a little from his position, he bent to touch his lips to the hem of her jeans, like a relic. "Because now you're knocked up, too, and that's... that's... I'm so sorry..."

"Don't say it like that," she said, frowning and placing her hand on the top of his head. "It's not that bad."

A shiver ran through his body at her gentle touch. "Yes, it is... It's so humiliating and insulting to you... And I still have to make that appointment..."

She froze, withdrawing her hand. "No."

"We can't keep it, surely you see that," he breathed, glancing up. "We will stop this before it's too late..."

She drew back again, curling her legs up onto her bed and out of his reach. "No.  _No_."

"Why not?"

"I'm keeping it. I'm- how c-" She got up, standing on the opposite side of the bed from him, afraid he might attack again now this point of contention had returned. She kept her back to the wall. "I'm keeping it. No."

But Erik didn't appear to move, out of sight from where he sat on the floor. His voice was quiet, pleading. "We'll... we'll get rid of it and... and… you want a child so badly, we'll adopt…! But we can't keep it... Not this one. Not mine."

"It's  _mine_ ," she insisted protectively, slowly making her way around the bed to the door. "You can't make me."

"You're being so brave about this, Christine, and I admire that, but… it isn't necessary... You shouldn't have to carry my spawn for nine months because of my mistake… I'll..." Erik was watching her, motionless. "You… you deserve a better child than that. We'll find you a proper one..."

"Don't say that," she hissed, standing near the foot of the bed. To get to the door, she would have to pass by him, but if she ran she could make it... "Don't you dare say that about my baby. I don't care."

Tears still coursed silently down the mask's cheeks. "How are you so attached to it already?"

Her face went red. "Because it's mine."

"And that's enough for you? Even though it's a genetic disaster and will be born all wrong...?"

"Don't say that," she said again, putting her arms around herself. "Don't say that like it's inevitable."

"With my luck it will be. My eyes and hair are already dominant traits against yours… what else of mine is? You would allow that to happen to a child?"

"It's not like that."

"Then how is it like?"

Christine frowned, hugging herself tighter. "I w- there's no guarantee and I'm not like your mom, I won't... I won't not love my kid if they're not perfect."

He turned away from her and carefully rolled the mask up; he was coughing and struggling to breathe through the fabric. After a moment, he resituated the fabric and continued in a low, urgent voice. "Listen to me, please. We both know Mother would have been better off getting rid of me from the start... We have a chance to not make the same mistake. If it's born looking like me..."

"It won't be. Or... it…" She faltered, staring down at Erik and his sodden mask. A vague horror gnawed at her. "You always tell me how much money we have. There's surgery."

"That's a long and painful process... if it works at all. And it won't be perfect. It will still look different from its peers... Say it must wait until it's older—a teenager at least—before a doctor consents to do that kind of construction, what will we do for all those years? Homeschool it and lock it up in the house and reinforce its shame? Or do we let it play among its peers and let those emotional scars develop anyway? No matter what we do, the child will suffer and that's a fact…" His tears renewed and he muffled a cry. "Please…"

Sensible though it may have been, she was filled with childish fury. She never got what she wanted. Never.

"Why can't you just let me hope for something I actually want? For once?" She watched him critically, wringing her hands.

"Because I won't do that to a child!" Erik snapped. He glared up at her, but it faltered. "I know you want one and I'm sorry for that, but this is a terrible idea... You have the Johnsons' children... isn't that enough? What if… they came over more often? That would be alright..."

"You wanted a wife. What you had with me should have been enough. But it wasn't, was it?" Her eyes were bright with frustration. "You've wanted more your whole life. You weren't willing to just have things the way they were, were you?"

Erik's shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes. He didn't seem to have an answer to that, or at least not one he would admit to. Covering the mask with his hands, he shook his head miserably.

"Listen to me, Christine," he persisted. "It won't be just the child that suffers… You will, too. I am telling you that right now. Mother…" Here he paused before continuing in a reverent murmur. "My poor mother endured so much on my account... I was five the last time she took me to the store with her and I remember all the stares... Not just at me, but at her, too. There was this woman… She thought Mother was abusing me and loudly told her she should be ashamed of herself... She threatened to call child services and everyone was staring at us, and we left without buying anything because someone had called once before, even though it wasn't any of their fucking business. What I'm trying to say, Christine, is she was judged no matter what she did. Everyone will be curious. Everyone will have an opinion. You can't win. Don't do that to yourself..."

 _You can't win._ If she could sum up her relationship with Erik in three words or less.

"I have to risk it." Her voice was small and determined.

She'd be lying if she told herself that didn't sound selfish even as she said it, but the phrase "a face only a mother could love" existed for a reason. She'd love her baby even if it was born with scales and three rows of teeth. That was going to be the one thing she wouldn't screw up. Her one responsibility in life.

"This isn't an environment for children, Christine… I thought we agreed on that…" No longer crying, his words simply sounded hollow and rote. He was calming, which meant she had finally worn him down or he was catching his second wind for another bout.

She glanced to the door.

"How many times do I have to tell you I don't care?"

Slowly, Erik crawled towards her on the floor, speaking in a tone so reasonable and placating it was almost seductive. "You've been so very, very brave…" he murmured, "but sometimes we have to do things we don't want to do…"

But Christine interrupted him, feeling mounting disgust and rage. "Why is it that only seems to apply to me? Never you? When we got married, you said you wanted me to be happy, except so far that only applies when it's convenient for you! You know I love kids and I was willing to give up my own because of you, but you can't just give me a baby then take it away! That isn't  _fair,_ Erik! Not after what you did."

"A mistake has been made—I am not denying that," Erik continued, not listening, "and I'm deeply sorry for causing you this pain, but…"

"You're an  _awful husband!"_ she snapped.

The words hung in the air.

Erik, frozen, gazed up at her with stunned hurt as if she had kicked him. As his hazel eyes brimmed with tears, Christine stared boldly back, feeling guilty and powerful by turns as she stood over him.

Neither of them said anything for a long moment, listening to the crash of the ocean outside. His gaze suddenly dropped to the carpet and without another word, he got to his feet and slunk out through the doorway like a dog with its tail between its legs. Within seconds, he had disappeared down the hall as if he had never been there in the first place, leaving her blessedly alone.

Well, almost alone. Something furry suddenly pressed against her legs, mewling indignantly. She glanced down; Edgar was rubbing his head against her calf as though trying to knock her over. Even for her needy cat she couldn't manage a smile, but she picked him up anyway and clutched him against her chest. As usual, that made her feel a little calmer, but her heart still pounded with frustration.

The guilt, too, was still there, but only just a little. She shouldn't have to feel sorry for what she said, not when it was true. He was an awful husband who seemed unable to tell the difference between a wife and a pet.

Even with the air conditioning running again, she still felt too hot and went to switch on the water for a nice, lukewarm shower. It did wonders to finally exhaust her nervous energy. By the time she got out, she felt relaxed enough to sleep.

Ignoring the sound of the piano emanating up from downstairs, she crawled into bed where Edgar was curled up in his customary position on her pillow. She buried her face in his fur and clung tightly to him.

But try as she might, she couldn't sleep. Tossing and turning, her ears filled with that distant music that seemed louder now that she had settled. It was a slow, thinly-textured piece she had never heard before, one that wandered gloomily from key to key without any kind of resolution. Her heart ached the longer she listened and when it transitioned from piano to violin, tears sprung unbidden to her eyes.

Quickly, Christine groped for her earbuds in the dark and shoved them into her ears to drown out the sound.

 

 

 

The next morning, Christine crept downstairs to microwave herself a bland breakfast of oatmeal with soy milk, but her nausea made it impossible to eat and she stared listlessly out the window instead.

Maybe she should be pleased. She had won last night's argument with an effective sucker-punch, but she still felt conflicted and not a little scared.

She dug a spoon into her oatmeal. Lukewarm gluggy mush.

Delicious.

Erik drifted in a little while later. Unshaven, he still wore last night's clothing and even behind the mask, she could tell his eyes were puffy from crying. She watched him in silence, but he seemed content to pretend she wasn't there while he poured himself half a tumbler of orange juice, then filled the rest with vodka.

Christine wanted to groan, but she had come to expect this of him. How long would they avoid each other this time? A week? A month? At least this time their fight had a deadline after which Erik could no longer legally argue his position.

As if laws had ever stopped him from doing anything, she thought resentfully, and forced herself to choke down a few more bites of her cold oatmeal.

Whatever Erik wanted, he got, in her experience. She had no doubt that he could find someone willing to perform a late-term abortion… Her stomach gave another dangerous lurch before she could finish the horrifying thought.

With that, Christine gave up on eating. She got up to take her dishes to the sink, which regretfully put her within arm's reach of Erik. Ignoring him, she switched on the water and she began to rinse them as quickly as she could, wondering if she could hide from him for the next seven or eight months until she had to give birth. Then she could sneak over to Hilary's...

"Don't worry," Erik said suddenly, quietly. "I can do that."

"So can I."

"Let me do them, please."

With a sigh, she surrendered her dishes and began to walk towards the glass door leading to the backyard while she wiped her wet hands on her jeans.

"You swear you'll love it, though, won't you?" he asked unexpectedly, apropos of nothing.

"What?" She stopped and glanced over her shoulder to him. He was watching her from the sink, regarding her with guilt and something she had never before seen in his eyes—pity.

"Even if everything goes wrong with it, you'll still love it?"

She shrugged helplessly. "More than anything in the world."

He nodded tiredly, leaning against the counter to drink deeply from his glass. After a moment of silence, he added: "I hope you know what you're doing, because I'm hopeless."

Christine had very little idea what she was doing, frankly, but she would never admit to that, not to him. She watched him warily.

In a low, dejected tone, he continued, refusing to meet her gaze. "I'm confident this comes as no surprise to you, but I don't know a thing about children or families or how a parent is supposed to behave beyond what I've seen on television... Well, I know how  _not_  to be a parent, but that isn't the same thing… And, anyway, I don't even like children and they certainly don't like me. In short, Christine, what I'm trying to say is this: I'm an unfit parent, no matter how you look at it. I want you to know that…" Finally he glanced back to her, anxious. "Which is why I'm asking… You know what you're doing, don't you?"

She grew still. Was this… consent? Surely not. Then again, she couldn't remember a time in their acquaintance when he'd sounded so resigned.

"I'm not asking you to be a parent," she said carefully. "I'm asking you to not stop me from being one."

Erik sighed quietly with what sounded an awful lot like relief and nodded. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Yes, alright. You can… keep the baby—"

Something swelled in her chest and she couldn't stop a stupid grin from splitting her face. Not just  _the_ baby, but  _her_  baby. Her baby was going to come into the world and she was going to keep it and it would be hers forever.

"—On the condition that I have nothing to do with it," he continued. "It will be your responsibility to tend and feed. I will… monetarily provide, but that is the extent of my relationship with the child. As you said, you… aren't asking me to be a parent and I do not wish to be one."

"I'm okay with that."

She couldn't remember the last time she had been this happy. Actually, she could, but she didn't want to dwell on the specifics as it involved a handsome blonde man in a suit.

"There is, of course, always time to change your mind," Erik resumed morosely.

She shook her head, still beaming. "Thanks, but that won't be necessary."

He gave another quiet sigh, looking more and more like a man planning a funeral.

"What do you need right now?" he asked exhaustedly. His gaze travelled from her face to her stomach and for once she didn't feel the need to cover her abdomen with her hands to protect it from him.

She groaned and covered her eyes. "Decaf."

"You can't have caffeine?"

"Don't think so. It... I read it makes miscarriages more likely."

"I see. You must really want this if you're willing to give up coffee for so many months."

Christine sighed. "Decaf isn't coffee." Or was. In exactly the same way grape juice was a finely aged Cabernet Sauvignon.

"That's depressing. Do you need anything else aside from not-coffee?"

She smiled very slightly, with relief. "Get me a banana, would you?"

"Just the one?"

The smile grew. "Just the one."

Of all her father's vices, feeding his daughter too much refined sugar wasn't one of them. Even now, bananas felt like luxury items in her mind, given as rewards for good grades in middle school the way other children received candy. She hadn't gotten many growing up. She definitely deserved one now.

Erik did not return the smile, nor find amusement in her eccentric request. His voice was flat and his shoulders were slumped, accompanying the defeat in his eyes. "I'll go to the store this afternoon."

Walking back towards the counter, Christine opened up the fridge to grab a can of ginger ale. She cracked it open and took a sip, regarding Erik for a moment. Then she reached out and nudged a fist against his arm in a weak attempt at a fake punch. "Thanks."

Erik curled his hand around her fist, holding it in place against his arm. Gently, he stroked her knuckles with his thumb. She was intensely startled by the sudden intimate gentleness and felt an urge to withdraw, but the sad look in his eyes stopped her.

"So... I take it the site of the future coffee laboratory will now become a... baby room?" he murmured with dismay.

Her smile returned vaguely. "I guess so."

"Is everything alright now?"

She just as quickly gave a frown. "Did you really think I was cheating?"

Erik did not meet her gaze and let go. "My wife is very beautiful and I am inadequate in every way possible. The thought is never far away."

Christine sniffed nonchalantly. "I'm not a total idiot."

"You aren't," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Thank you."

Much as she knew he loved her, the admission still felt like an immense compliment, especially after last night.

"I'm… going to go sit out in the backyard a bit," she said after a moment, holding her ginger ale in both hands. She watched his face.

"As you like," he replied without resistance. "I'll be making myself presentable if you need me."

Hesitantly, Christine reached up and patted his masked cheek, meeting his eyes for a moment. He lingered longer than she expected, covering her hand with his, before he pulled away. Drink in hand, he retreated to the basement.

It was a good day.

Now that her pregnancy was not a secret, Christine spent the morning and afternoon indulging in all the Googling she had wanted to do since the idea of a child entered her mind. Currently, her baby was the size of a kidney bean. It was forming nostrils, eyes, and lungs. A heartbeat twice the speed of hers.

A heartbeat. Her baby was alive, no longer just a faint, desperate dream. It felt... liberating.

That evening, when she went to the kitchen for a snack—she needed to be eating maybe 300 more calories a day for the baby, after all—she felt a proper smile on her face.

To her amusement, a variety of decaf coffee cans had been prominently arranged into the shape of a pyramid on the counter. At its base lay a single unblemished banana and, off to the side, a large bottle of folic acid. The freezer, she next discovered, was crammed with chocolate soy ice cream and the refrigerator now contained more fruits and vegetables than she had ever seen in the house before at one time.

300 calories was four standard servings of soy ice cream or two pounds of baby carrots.

She smiled indulgently at herself and grabbed a spoon.

So life didn't, in fact, always suck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all our readers and everyone who has left reviews! We really apologize for how long it's taken to get this chapter out on account of crazy holidays, illness, grad school applications, and other assorted drama. This story is definitely not abandoned. We hope to get back to a regular posting schedule soon! :-)


	11. Chapter 11

In January, Erik announced a shopping trip to expand her wardrobe with appropriate maternity wear. She agreed on the condition they went to Walmart because there was no point in spending a lot of money on clothes she would only be wearing for several months. Erik agreed, but when they got into the car, he drove the completely opposite direction and she soon realized they were going to the upscale mall downtown instead. She wanted to smack him.

Christine was now about four months into her pregnancy and showing a little more than normal, if only because she'd been so underweight before. Now that her nausea had settled down a little, she was better able to enjoy her pregnancy. Their routine had become comfortable: Erik cooked three meals a day, forcibly absolved her of cleaning Edgar's litter box, and did not protest too loudly when she wanted to do her own laundry. When she found herself crying for no reason at all, he brought her peppermint tea. When she found herself angry for no reason at all, he brought her more. Once a month, he accompanied her on her prenatal visits to the doctor, pointedly reading magazines in the corner of the exam room as if he weren't there, then took her out for fake-coffee after. It felt nice. It felt… normal.

The only thing that troubled her was Erik's increasing interest in her health. At first he had been content to simply ask her what she needed; but these days, whenever she glanced over his shoulder while he worked upstairs on his laptop, she noticed more pregnancy websites than the usual terminal windows she was used to seeing. Additional vitamin supplements appeared on the counter with a recommended pill-taking schedule. Along with cooking her meals, he was counting her calories, charting her weight gain, monitoring her sleeping patterns, and probably also logging the number of times she used the bathroom each day.

Some women, perhaps, might appreciate such neurotic attentiveness from their significant other during this particular time, but all of it was reminding her too much of their "courtship," when his obsession with her raged beyond proportion and decency. Rather than a prisoner, she now felt more like a show dog or a prized sow than a wife; but she reminded herself that this was just Erik being supportive and affectionate, and didn't allow herself to think about it beyond that. He was trying to help in the only way he knew how.

Maybe it was just the hormones talking, but in spite of this one uncomfortable development, everything felt pretty okay right now. The ever-present guilt in his eyes now completely convinced her that he would have remained a perfect gentleman had she not manipulated him. Sick as it was, that made her feel like for once in their relationship, they were finally on equal ground. They were in a reasonably good place, she and her husband.

… Even when he dragged her on long shopping adventures in places that made her intensely uncomfortable.

Christine and Erik had been meandering through the mall for a good two hours now. On one of his bony forearms hung four glossy boutique bags containing the day's purchases; his other hand Christine held indulgently as they strolled through, in spite of how cold his skin was against hers. Did he never warm up?

When Erik lead her towards yet another little chic shop, exactly the kind Christine normally would have avoided on sight, she sighed and tugged at his arm with half-hearted resistance.

"This is the last place, I promise," he assured her with an easy smile.

"That's what you said at the last store," she said with yet another sigh. She did a lot of sighing these days.

"I mean it this time. Cross my heart."

The usual Billboard top 20 songs played on the overhead speaker as they waded through several island racks of muted winter clothes. Christine followed him with minimal interest to the back of the store where a large variety of maternity dresses were displayed. They were the only people in the store except for a single, barely post-high school girl behind the counter who shoved her phone back into her pocket the second she noticed them enter.

"What about this?" Erik asked, reaching for a long sleeve winter dress, blue-with-white stripes.

"I don't know…"

"Well, what about this, then?"

It was cashmere and that's all she needed to know.

"I really don't… are you really sure we can't try Walmart?"

Erik shook his head, smiling indulgently. "Don't be silly."

Now they were standing by a rack of fine, flowing maxi dresses, each one prettier and more expensive than the last. She glanced at a price tag at random and felt her insides clench. How could anyone in their right mind spend this much money on clothes?

"Florals won't be in for another month or two, I know, but you need  _something_ to wear until then," Erik persisted, adjusting the shopping bags on his arm while he flicked through endless hangers.

"I can carry one of those if you want," she observed for the fourth time today, but he waved her off.

"That's very sweet of you, dear, but you needn't fret. Hauling things about is precisely what husbands are for. Besides, you're already carrying a healthy baby boy and that's quite enough."

That, at least, brought the smallest of smiles to her face. Having grown up in a home full of girls, she was thrilled at the thought of raising a son. Not only was it a change, but a boy she could teach to be everything her father was—and everything his father wasn't. This little son of hers would be polite and gracious. Kind to everyone and accepting when things didn't go his way. He'd be a good person. Exactly as his parents weren't.

"Now  _this_  is cute," Erik exclaimed, pulling an empire-waisted, pink paisley dress off the rack and holding it up for Christine's approval as though he had found the only garment she need ever wear again. She glanced at it and shrugged.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the girl behind the counter staring enviously in Erik's direction. Erik, too busy fanning out the skirts for closer inspection, apparently remained oblivious to her attention. Christine sighed quietly, wondering if the girl would covet her silicone-faced spouse so badly if she knew he only understood 'boundary' as a mathematical term or obsessed over his wife's ex-boyfriend until it became unclear whose ex he actually was. A steep price to pay.

"I think we have enough things already, kiddo," she replied diplomatically. "Thanks, though."

"But it would look so well on you," he cajoled, "and you need at least one dress."

The way Erik hid this particular price tag inspired a new wave of anxiety, which she forced down. Four hundred dollars they'd spent today and Erik still wasn't finished yet, apparently. She would never escape his debt at this rate.

"Okay, but that's the last thing." She sighed. "Then I want to go home. I'm tired."

"You'll be so pleased once you've made friends with it, you'll see!"

While Erik counted cash from his wallet at the register, still utterly oblivious to the way the girl now sighed at his wedding ring, Christine drifted towards the exit of the store looking for a place to sit down. But before she could get far, a rack of scarves caught her eye. Among masses of thick cable knit in a myriad of different colors, she spotted a shock of deep red.

Unable to stop herself, she pulled it off the display. It was unbelievably soft.

It was exactly the same color and texture as the one her father gave her, only far more expensive. When they were living in Dad's crappy, mustard colored 1986 Volvo 240, he'd taken her to Abercrombie & Fitch after school one cold winter day, and let her pick out a thick knit infinity scarf of warm red wool. She'd worn it to his funeral when she was thirteen and kept it for years and years.

It was also the same scarf she wore the night Raoul first asked her out to dinner. They had gone to a sushi restaurant, then finished off the night with a walk through Grant Park. As she was readjusting her scarf, a violent gust of winter wind tore it away. They chased it into a fountain and Raoul, heroically tearing off his overcoat, leapt into the freezing water to rescue it. It was a miracle he didn't catch pneumonia or something.

She smiled sadly at the memory.

She missed that scarf.

"What's that you have there?" a low voice asked.

She started and turned around to face Erik, who was looming directly behind her with bag number five on his wrist. Seeing the scarf, his expression fell. Glancing to her face with suddenly hard eyes, his jaw clenched and he took a slow, measured breath.

"It's a nice scarf, isn't it?" she asked softly, meeting his gaze all the same.

Erik's voice was cold and uncompromising. "We have enough things already."

"But I like it."

"Oh, I'm certain you do." Unmistakable menace cut through his words. " _Put it back."_

"But you ruined my last one."

"Did I? Remind me whose fault it was—yours or  _his?"_

Christine said nothing, staring down at the scarf held tightly in her hands.

" _Put it back_ ," he growled. "You already have several scarves, including that nice blue one from Ghaz."

"Why can't I have a red one?"

"Because you don't need one." He stepped closer, their conversation becoming uncomfortably intimate. She felt the need to flinch away.

Christine glanced quickly to the cashier, but she was neatly refolding jeans and no longer paying attention to the couple who had pleased her so much. She willed her to look in their direction, just one more time. But she didn't, of course. The obnoxious overhead radio completely drowned out the hushed conversation.

"I wouldn't have had to throw it out if you hadn't…" Erik arched a warning eyebrow and Christine hesitated, struggling to select the least incriminating word she could think of. "...If you hadn't stained it. What else could I do?"

"I thought you understood that none of that would have been necessary if you hadn't encouraged him to put his nose in matters that weren't his business."

Erik made a grab for the scarf, but she clutched it protectively to her chest.

"This isn't about him." Christine felt tears springing to her eyes, much to her frustration. "Dad gave it to me!"

"Then it is a pity you did not take care of such precious possessions."

"Yeah," she snapped, "because there's so much I can do while I'm unconscious and  _someone_  is being…"

Psycho. Crazy. Batshit. Insane.

His eyes flashed in that way that sometimes made Christine fear he could actually read her thoughts.

"Being  _what_?" he demanded, their faces now so close that she could smell latex.

 

 

 

_"I'm sorry… I shouldn't have disobeyed you. I'm- I'm so sorry. Please don't... please forgive me."_

_"Lie down on the bed."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I told you to. I will not ask you again. Lie. Down. On. The. Bed."_

_"No… What are you doing? You're scaring me."_

_"You claim to be sorry for disobeying me earlier and yet when I give you an opportunity to exercise your obedience, you fail to do so, and that makes me very angry, Christine. Very angry. And at this moment, I highly suggest you do nothing to anger me further. You will not like the consequences. You will already be suffering enough."_

_"Please don't hurt him."_

_"You knew there would be consequences to behaving the way you did. You knew that! You knew that and still you did it! It's almost like you want him dead! Now do what I ask before I force you to."_

_Chewing the inside of her cheek, Christine did as he said, struggling not to cry._

_"This will pinch..." The hypodermic needle slid easily into her thigh and Christine's vision swam. "Go to sleep."_

 

 

 

She pulled away from him, feeling a little faint.

"Nevermind. I just miss Dad is all," Christine mumbled. Hands shaking, she reluctantly replaced the scarf on the display, arranging it as lovingly as the one she lost, all the while chewing hard on the inside of her cheek. The tears in her eyes finally fell and she turned away to dry them as discreetly as she could. "Can we please go home now?"

That's all she had wanted to do that night—to go home—and told Raoul as much. It had been their first and last unguarded conversation after Erik kidnapped her only a few days earlier. Raoul swore his love for her for the first time, that he would do everything he could to rescue her, and instead of telling him to shut up like she was supposed to, she listened in a moment of weakness because she needed someone to tell her everything was going to be okay.

In his savage fury, Erik left her blood-spattered scarf in Grant Park for Raoul to find. She didn't remember him taking blood from her, but the police had positively identified it as hers. Consequently, Erik gleefully encouraged Raoul to believe Christine was dead and would not release the location of her body until her wreck of a boyfriend agreed to call off the police.

By the time her property was returned to her, the stains wouldn't wash out; its memory horribly tainted besides. So she threw it out. What else could she have done?

Erik watched her tears impassively, his eyes still hard and dark, before nodding wordlessly. Sliding an arm around her shoulders, they left the store together. As the motion sensor beeped at their departure, the cashier glanced over to watch them go, and smiled again.

 

//

 

Erik maintained his silence the whole ride home. He made no effort to touch her and she hadn't the courage to look at him, to try and read his expression. Even now, she couldn't say whether he had buried his anger or was about to explode; but in either case, it was best to tread lightly. So upon their arrival home, Christine left Erik to bring in the bags himself while she escaped immediately to the kitchen to prepare herself a decaf latte.

Maybe, if she played it safe for now, he'd be reasonable.

She needed a little space anyway.

That was the only thing that dampened the excitement of having a son—Erik's inability to share her attention with another male. In the past, if she had been the only one to suffer Erik's punishment, she might not worry so much; but his psychotic jealousy had turned Raoul into her whipping boy, who refused to abandon her, which only made the situation worse. And it wasn't so much Erik hurting Raoul to deliberately upset her that chilled her blood as it was the pleasure he took in expressing his hatred.

If Erik ever treated her son the way he had treated Raoul, she would kill him. Without a second thought.

But at the same time, she couldn't believe that Erik would interfere with a boy and his mother, no matter how jealous he was. He might be annoyed, he might be moody, but he wouldn't threaten a child, would he? Not after he had clearly only allowed her to keep the baby except to earn her forgiveness. Erik wouldn't risk that.

But then again, he always managed to surprise her.

By the time she was sitting at the table with her drink and kicking off her shoes, Erik joined her. The mutual silence continued as he spied the coffee cup in her hand. Out came his phone. A couple swipes and taps later, he made his usual bee line to the liquor cabinet to poured himself two shots of vodka in rapid succession. A quiet sigh of satisfaction followed.

"How are you feeling, dear?" he finally asked, turning an anxious gaze upon her.

Erik, the devoted husband, had returned almost in the blink of an eye.

Christine forced herself to breathe and said nothing. Instead she took her first sip of coffee, face falling as it always did. Decaf just wasn't the same. It was about as satisfying as drinking flat soda.

"My feet hurt," she replied after a moment.

"I could rub them if you'd like," he offered with a sympathetic smile. "You've been on them all day and you deserve a rest..."

She rubbed her eyes. "Just... just give me a minute, okay? I just sat down. Let me have my coffee."

A good caffeine buzz made it so much easier to deal with Erik. Until today she hadn't truly felt its loss. Until today, he hadn't given her a reason to.

"Of course, of course," he murmured, bobbing his head in self-reproach before brightening again. "I can't wait to see you in your new clothes, you know. You're going to look so lovely in them."

She sighed. "No, I look like a potato. A potato with hair."

"Really?" Erik looked thoughtfully in her direction, then shook his head. "I must not be acquainted with many potatoes because all I see is an extremely lovely expectant mother."

"Ugh." She let her head fall onto the tabletop, arms wrapped around it with another groan. "Stop talking."

"Was it something I said?"

When all she could do was eat and make it to the bathroom before she puked, she didn't exactly feel like Heidi Klum. It would only get worse the bigger she got and somehow Erik's unconditionally flattering observations didn't help.

She lifted her head enough to glance at him. "I look like a moldy potato. Lying is bad."

"If you're a moldy potato, then I'm Adonis. You're being far too critical of yourself."

Christine made another muffled grunt before returning to her coffee, feeling suddenly exhausted. She glanced at Erik. "So, you're the expert—how long after he's born before I can drink real coffee again?"

"Immediately after, I would imagine," Erik replied, frowning. "Unless you plan on breastfeeding..."

She sighed. Of course she did. "I'm going to die if I have to wait that long."

"But it will be worth it, won't it?" he asked and reached out to gently rub her shoulder. "Your healthy boy will thank you. And you're doing wonderfully. Would you like some ice cream?"

"No, he won't. He won't know." She pouted petulantly, glancing up at him. "I'm not really hungry right now."

"Then why don't you let me rub your feet? You'll feel better…"

Christine crossed her arms again. "But then I'll have to move to the couch. I don't wanna walk anymore."

"It is well within my abilities to carry you," he reminded her gently.

She wanted to resist the offer, but the draw of muscular relief was stronger than the desire to stew. So she cracked a smile. "Don't be silly."

"Now, in five months...?" Erik bounced his eyebrows playfully and walked towards her. "I promise, It's no inconvenience at all. Anything to make this depressing era of privation more bearable..."

She shook her head, smile fading. "I can do it myself, it's fine. You don't let me do anything. Let me walk at least."

"If you like..." He wrung his hands. "So long as you aren't overtaxed or overburdened. It might be deleterious to the baby."

Rolling her eyes, Christine got to her feet, downing the rest of her coffee and taking the mug to the sink. "I think I can handle walking a few feet."

"I'm sure you can," he replied placatingly, hovering near the door to the media room.

"And you can stop using big words around me, thank you very much," she grumbled half-seriously as she walked past him.

"Never." He smirked and sat at the end of the couch while she flopped unceremoniously onto the leather. From the drawer in the side table, he retrieved a half-empty bottle of lotion. "Have you spoken to your family lately? I was thinking it might be nice for them to visit, particularly once the baby is born."

She rested her feet on his lap, leaning back and closing her eyes. "They're going to fuss over him. I spoke to Mom last week. She said she'd like to come visit."

Erik tugged off her socks and tossed them to the floor. "Of course they're going to fuss over him. As I understand it, that's what happens to newborns. It would be nice to have her, don't you think?"

"The poor thing won't be put down before he's two. And you're probably gonna wrap everything in the house in cotton wool." She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, then gave him a long, appraising look. "Don't freak out when he hurts himself, okay?"

"I promised to leave the parenting to you. I don't think that will be so bad for him, though. Babies like being held constantly, don't they?"

He squeezed a dab of lotion into his palm and began to work the taut muscle of her foot. She let out a groan, tipping her head back in satisfaction. Say whatever else she might about Erik, thirty years of instrumental music had left him with strong hands and she would be lying if she said she didn't like when he put them to this use.

"Babies don't learn anything if you don't let them," she remarked. "Haven't you read about that?"

"I mean, it wouldn't be such a bad thing if he's not put down before he's two. As I said, I leave the parenting to you."

Christine fell silent a moment, enjoying the massage; observing him passively.

As much as she wanted to keep this baby to herself, and as much as Erik seemed content to do exactly that, she wondered if maybe that was exactly the wrong way to go about this relationship.

 

 

 

 

" _I will agree not to break his wretched neck, but only under certain conditions."_

_"What are they?"_

_"When you are with me, you may speak to him but only if you do not provoke him with your asinine games of_ — _" A mocking parody of her voice, "_ —  _'Remember what you said last night? Do you love me?' Do not fucking do it."_

_"I understand. Thank you."_

_"I know you like him and it kills me that you do. I wish it didn't matter to me_ — _Christine, you cannot imagine how much I wish I didn't care_ — _because it's physically agonizing. Speak with him if you must, kiss him if you must… but do not let this relationship develop further than it has."_

_"But he loves me, how am I-"_

_"You are to give him no hope! I know he fucking loves you_ — _he's positively disgusting about it_ — _do not remind me of this fact. But you will tell him what hell will rain down upon him if he pushes you for more than this."_

_"I will."_

_"You understand how unhappy I am about this particular arrangement, but I am willing to... accommodate your friendship with him... if only you will return to me willingly, to share a few sweet words with me the way you used to... I can be so gentle. So very gentle if only you will let me show you."_

" _I understand."_

" _Know this, Christine. The kinder and more considerate you are to me, the kinder and more considerate I shall be to you. The effort you take to accommodate my feelings, it will be returned similarly."_

 

 

 

 

To be fair, this could be just as dangerous as crossing her fingers and just hoping everything worked out for the best; but ensuring her baby's safety now meant more to her than her life, her pride, her anything else. Erik usually tried not to hurt the ones he loved, and if he felt loved in return…

"You'll let him call you Dad, won't you?" she asked softly.

Erik frowned deeply, gaze fixed intently on his work. "No. I've given this some thought and I intend to be more of an uncle figure to him. He may simply call me Erik."

Christine frowned. "Why? You're his father."

"Biologically, perhaps, but that doesn't mean the title is appropriate." He kept his eyes lowered. "Dad is far too intimate as it is. An excellent mother is all a boy needs, really, so Erik will be sufficient."

She was pouting. "He is  _not_  going to call you Erik."

"What's wrong with my name?"

"Isn't it kind of weird to imagine him calling me Christine?"

"Of course it is," he replied with an indignant stare in her direction. "You're his mother."

She crossed her arms. "And you're his father. He's still going to be attached to you, whether you like it or not. That's what happens when you live with someone for that many years, I imagine."

Erik's expression became hard to read. "I like to think so," he mumbled. "But I think you overestimate his capabilities. That sort of thing just doesn't happen with me even under the best of circumstances, so…" A pause. "Fine, he may call me Father, if it pleases you, but that is the only compromise I am willing to make."

"No," she replied tightly, eyes narrowing.

"He's  _your_  son," Erik said, exasperated, finally meeting her gaze. "All I did was provide genetic material. I'm his father, not his dad."

" _Our_  son," she insisted stiffly. "I'm not asking you to be perfect. But he will be your son too."

"We agreed I was under no obligation to be a parent, only to let you have the baby." He set his jaw.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not asking that either. You're providing for him and me. That's enough. But just let him call you Dad. You don't have to devote any more time to him. Just let him use that word. Please."

"It just doesn't feel right," he grumbled, slouching back against the couch.

"It will," she said gently.

It had to.

Erik stared at the feet in his lap a moment before reaching for the lotion again and continuing to work, mouth pushed into a cross between a frown and a pout. He went silent, his face going taut as if fighting tears; but it soon passed.

"So do you think Mrs Giry will let him call her grandma?" he asked in a forcibly lighter tone.

Christine broke a smile. "Of course she will. She's always loved kids."

"Is she excited you're having one?"

Her smile faltered. "Yeah, she is."

"What did you tell Meg?"

She sniffed. "She knew you didn't want kids. She wasn't exactly delighted."

"But isn't she happy for you?"

A noncommittal shrug. "Yeah. She's excited to meet him. She just... expressed that you must have been annoyed because it wasn't planned."

Erik snorted. "What did you tell her?"

Christine pulled one foot away and gestured to the other. "That it didn't matter, we're excited anyway."

"Good…" Erik moved wordlessly on to the next with a firm, practiced hand. He smiled blandly. "Is everyone coming to visit, or just your mother?"

Frankly she hadn't even broached the subject of a visit here with Mrs Giry. Whenever she called, it was the same conversation over and over, now that she knew she was pregnant. 'Too young, just like your mother. Remember what happened to her?' Yes, Christine remembered with crystal clarity what had happened to her mother.

The thought of hearing that lecture in full without the option of hanging up the phone was far from motivating.

Less motivating still was the knowledge that anywhere Meg went, her long term girlfriend went too.

"Oh, don't put hormonal me and Cecile in the same room together," she laughed tiredly.

"How bad could it be?" he teased.

Christine pouted at him. "You'll have to replace all the windows. I am in no mood."

"That's a pity. It would be nice to have all that company, to see all of you together…" He sighed. "Still, it would be nice to see your mother at least."

"Invite Ghaz and Darius if you want company." She pulled her feet out of his grasp and sat upright, rubbing her neck. "I'm going to make another coffee. You want anything?"

"A glass of wine, but I can do that. I invited Ghaz, but his current case load prevents him from leaving. Besides, would you really want a house full of men?"

"I'm going to have a house full of men anyway," she said with a smile, patting her stomach. "I had a house full of girls for... what, nearly six years? I've had enough of that."

Erik got to his feet and offered her a hand up, which she accepted it begrudgingly. Once she was upright, he briefly rubbed her upper back and followed her into the kitchen.

"That is a lot of estrogen," he murmured. "I can't imagine."

She laughed, setting about making her second coffee. If she couldn't have quality, she'd have to go for quantity instead. "You can't, can you? Lucky you." She paused. "It's... it's going to be really nice having someone else in the house. It won't feel so empty."

Erik opened the fridge for an open bottle of wine and emptied it into a clean glass. "Does it really feel that empty?"

"It can sometimes. I don't know why you chose such a huge house when it was just going to be the two of us."

Erik shrugged. "I wanted it to be nice and... I wanted you to have your space and privacy."

"There are nice small houses. It feels like a castle sometimes..." She watched him enviously as he sipped his wine, distracted from her train of thought.

Erik, noticing her look, glanced away apologetically, but continued to sip at his alcohol. "I prefer big houses. Anyway, better a castle than a two bedroom house where you feel like I'm constantly underfoot. And Edgar has room to roam."

Christine sipped her coffee. "It'll feel a little fuller is all. It'll be nice."

"If it pleases you..." he murmured.

Pensively, she looked down, rubbing her stomach. "I'm going to have to name him eventually."

Erik nodded. "What about Theo, after your father? We can call him Teddy until he grows into it."

"I like that. It's sweet."

At that, Erik smiled widely and he glanced down, pleased. "You really think so?"

"Yeah. Teddy. I like it." She nudged his arm with a fist. "That goes on the list, I guess."

Erik rubbed where she had touched him and shifted a little closer. "What about you? What do you think?"

She gave a sardonic smile. "How about Jack? Would that make you like him more?"

"Jack?" Erik scoffed with laughter. "I thought you hated that name."

"Yeah, on you." There was still a smile on her face.

"Touché," he responded dryly and sipped at his wine. "I suppose there's also David, if we want to flatter Ghaz."

She frowned. "Not unless you want to make him a godfather. Or... do you? I guess we haven't talked about that..."

Erik shrugged noncommittally. "It crossed my mind. He would be my first choice, but, ah... How much do you want him in your life?"

David Ghaznavi, the closest to a friend Erik had, still lived with his partner in Chicago. While he and Erik had been rather vague on the details of how they met, she liked him a lot, though they hadn't spoken since the wedding. He was polite, witty, shared her love of Diana Damrau, and had slipped a business card into her coat pocket the first evening she and Erik had dinner with him, a card inviting her to call him at his Chicago Police Department office for any reason. Or on his personal cell phone. She'd never made good on his offer, of course, but circumstances had been different then.

She raised her eyebrow. "What, you mean... after?"

"It is the godfather's responsibility to step in when the father steps out. It would be a guaranteed position for him."

Christine shrugged. "If he wanted to. He's a good person."

Ghaz was one of the few people she'd met since knowing Erik that gave her a genuine feeling of safety. Perhaps he could do the same for her son.

"I'll ask him," Erik replied after a long moment of silence, contemplating the liquor cabinet with an inscrutable expression. "I haven't mentioned we're expecting yet."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'd have thought he'd be the first person you'd complained to."

Erik smirked humorlessly. "I know what his reaction is going to be and I don't want to deal with it quite yet. I'll tell him soon, though."

Christine crossed her arms. "What's his reaction going to be?"

Erik's smirk grew wider. With a dramatic tilt of his head and a long-suffering look on his face, he sighed heavily. "Really, Erik? Really?" To Christine's surprise, the voice that came from Erik's mouth was a dead-on impersonation of his absent friend, down to timbre and cadence, though infused with more condescension than Ghaz had ever used. Were she hearing this conversation from the next room over, she could be convinced the man himself were here. "Was it an accident? Please tell me you're joking. How is Christine taking it? Oh, dear, that poor girl..."

Christine raised her eyebrows. "Dude, that's scary."

Erik smiled and shrugged with false modesty. When he spoke again, it was his own voice. "Next he'd gossip with Darius and we would hear the laughing all the way from here."

She became serious. "Does he know I wanted kids?"

"I assume he inferred it when I mentioned you were trying to steal the neighbors'. If not, he will soon."

"It's okay as long as they're only laughing at you."

"They are, I promise," he assured her quietly with a rueful expression. "I'm sure you'll get a call from Ghaz soon asking if you're alright and Darius will probably send you a sympathy bouquet. They would never laugh at you."

She chuckled. "That's sweet of them. If they can get away, I'd love to see them."

"Perhaps when the baby is born. I'm certain they might like to visit out of morbid curiosity. And I would like to see Ghaz again..."

Her hand was on her stomach again protectively. "Don't say morbid, he'll hear you."

Erik briefly covered his mouth with the tips of his fingers in apology. "I just don't think Ghaz and Darius will fully believe he exists until they see him with their own eyes."

"Just like me," she replied with a smirk of her own.

For a moment she became acutely aware that the face she was speaking to probably bore no resemblance to the man her son would grow into. And though it moved, though it looked realistic, there was something uncanny— unsettling—about it. It sometimes felt little better than the masks he wore around the house, which lead to another problem.

"I hope you're not going to make me explain why you wear masks all the time," Christine remarked.

Erik groaned quietly and went to set his wine glass by the sink. "I'd rather not think about that just now."

Christine frowned pointedly, furrowing her eyebrows. "I know, but... that'd be wrong. Just... we... I don't want him growing up around that."

"This is how I was raised. And quite frankly, I'd rather him not see."

"If he grows up around it, it'll just be normal. People aren't born scared."

"And if he grows up around the mask, it will be just as normal," he pointed out shortly.

Christine followed Erik to the sink and nudged him with her shoulder. "That could screw him up. Don't do that to him."

"It's my face as much as any other. He will be fine and will accept it as normal." He stepped away.

Christine, however, didn't back down. "Remember what happened the last time you didn't give me what I wanted?"

"Which time?" he asked with a grim smile.

She smirked back, facing him so she could rub his chest with an innocent look in her eyes. "You didn't let me have Hilary's kids over. I'm very good at escalating, dear. I don't think you want me to this time."

Erik's smile grew ever grimmer. Beneath her hand, she felt his heart skip to a nervous rhythm. "Oh? And why is that?"

She hooked a finger around his collar, tugging at it teasingly. "Because your poor pregnant wife can inflict a lot of suffering if you decide not to please her."

"I don't know if I believe her..." he replied in a playful, trembling tone. He leaned back against the counter and chewing the inside of his cheek, watching her closely.

She stared right back. "Well, she doesn't need to prove herself to you, fortunately."

"I... I think she might," he mumbled with a half smirk.

She chuckled breathily. "That sounds like an invitation."

"Don't be silly..." As his smirk grew, his ears went from pink to red.

She returned his smile almost conspiratorially, beckoning him to lean down with one finger. "C'mere," she murmured gently, one hand still resting against his chest.

Erik hesitated, then obediently he leaned down, body tense, eyes closed. His expression looked distinctly apprehensive.

She placed her free hand against his opposite cheek, resting the side of her face against his, lips at his ear. She was whispering. "It'd be much more fun without anything on, though..." She drummed her fingers against his cheek. "I imagine you can feel a lot more." She didn't bother hiding her smugness.

Erik's body grew tenser, if it were possible, and casually shifted his hips back. He opened his mouth to reply, but all he produced was soft, inarticulate sound of agreement. When he found his voice again, it floated an octave above his normal register. "Lemme... ah... lemme go wash it off?"

Christine smirked, leaning a little farther forward to press a light, brief kiss below his ear where she was sure he'd feel it. He shivered violently. "Do whatever you like," she said and moved away with a nonchalant smile.

As the space between them widened, Erik breathed a sigh that was difficult to identify as either relief or dismay. Wringing his hands at his stomach, he watched her in awkward silence before glancing indecisively towards the stairs.

"Do you really want me to?" he asked.

"I said do whatever you like, dear."

If that little performance of hers couldn't convince him to strip that face off, then she wasn't certain what else would… but to her surprise and relief, Erik turned away from her without another word and disappeared from the kitchen.

Success.

To pass the time, Christine sat down at the table to check her email and then browse for baby clothes and coffee machines, but when nearly an hour passed without a reappearance, she felt an odd sting of irritation. Did it normally take this long? Or had he lost his nerve?

Maybe she had been a little too forward and frightened him off.

She got tiredly to her feet and went to contemplate the truly ridiculous amount of ice cream in the freezer, only to hear the sound of Erik clearing his throat.

He was regarding her intently from behind the black housemask as he lurked awkwardly in the entryway to the kitchen. But what caught her attention was the fact that he had removed every inch of his makeup. With an odd thrill of apprehension, her eyes traced the rough patches of grey mottled skin emerging from under the edges of the mask. It ran down his jaw and throat until disappearing past the collar of his shirt. How far she couldn't say and honestly wasn't keen to see.

"That wasn't what I meant, dear," she said quietly with a coquettish pout over her shoulder.

Erik shifted where he stood, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. Then, swallowing, he stood a little taller, and spoke in a voice that trembled. "Then... come take it."

She closed the freezer, smiling. "What was that?"

He tried again, managing only a little more confidence. "If... you don't like it, then come take it."

She laughed. "Mmkay. Sit down."

Erik shrunk from her laughter and his eyes wandered back towards the stairs, as though very seriously considering returning to sulk. But, swallowing his pride, he slunk to one of the kitchen chairs, and watched her timidly.

Christine moved towards him, standing in front of him and lifting his chin with a finger. Her lips were pursed thoughtfully. "You know," she said, conversationally. "I don't really like being told what to do."

"Really?"

Erik turned his head away from her, but she grasped his chin between her finger and thumb, to hold him in place.

"Yes, really," she murmured. "And you tried to, didn't you? Tsk, tsk."

This time, he didn't resist her, and closed his eyes. "And... and I'm still waiting."

A disbelieving scoff. "For what, exactly?"

"To do what I said," he whispered weakly.

The amusement disappeared from her face. She traced the edge of the mask with one finger. "Didn't you hear me, sweetie?"

"No…"

She wondered how long these little flirtatious games would work on Erik before he grew desensitized, or how far she might someday need to go in order to maintain this little bit of power. There was a thrill to it; she couldn't deny it.

She smiled, leaning down to meet his eyes. "I said  _don't_  tell me what to do."

"So now what?" he asked softly, forcing himself to make eye contact.

Christine pushed him back in the seat by the chest, creating enough room on his lap for her to sit, both of her legs crossed on one side. To steady herself, she put an arm around his neck. The effect was instantaneous; he grabbed the edge of the nearby table, his eyes widening with shock.

"Well, there's an awful lot I could put you through, honestly," she said, still smiling.

Yet he managed a nervous smirk. "Oh, yes? Try me."

She bit her lip, trying to ignore his body's response to a woman in his lap. "Oh, but the look on your face is so much fun to watch right now..."

"You can't see my face."

The facade cracked slightly; she laughed. "I can see your eyes. They're very expressive, y'know."

Erik wet his lower lip, then closed his eyes. "Oh, no. Now what?"

She laughed again, and shifted to graze his earlobe with her teeth. "Did you know your ears turn red when you're flustered?"

A ragged, incoherent sigh was Erik's response.

She smiled. "Open your eyes."

He did so and pulled away to look at her in silence, one hand now uncertainly on her waist. His pulse visibly leapt in his flushed throat.

The smile grew into a grin. "So what are you learning?"

"That you're a tease and a flirt?" he asked a little breathlessly.

Not untrue. But, unimpressed, she moved as if to get up. "That wasn't what I had in mind, no."

"That I should listen to you is what I meant to say," he amended quickly, not removing his hand.

A proud smile. "Correct." She paused for a moment and widened her eyes. "And, also, that you're going to take it off yourself."

"What?"

"The mask. Take it off yourself."

The conclusion was inevitable, but still Erik's smile faded. He looked away to the wall, taking a slow deep breath. Then, resigned, he hooked his thumb under the edge of the mask and set it silently on the table.

It was always the horrible gaping hole for a nose she stared at first. She couldn't help herself. Somehow that was the worst part of his face, which was little more than a scarred, pasty skull with sunken eyes. Beneath the thin flesh, every blue vein was visible except among grey patches of discoloration spreading over his cheeks, mouth, and forehead like some sort of skin condition. The overall effect reminded her of a corpse from a documentary she and Meg once watched on a dare about the FBI body farm in Texas. Even worse, his normally deathly pale cheeks were currently blotchy and red, either from washing, embarrassment, or both, giving him a more than usually variegated complexion.

The initial shock, always the worst part, wore off quickly. Immediately, she squeezed his shoulder and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Good," she murmured against his skin.

Erik flinched with an audible sigh, but did not pull away. As his breathing grew shallow and tremulous, Christine put her arms around his neck and encouraged him to rest his head against her shoulder, knowing what was coming.

"Really," she insisted. "Good job."

That caused him to suck in a tearful breath. "If you say so," he whispered, barely audible, and the inevitable weeping began in earnest.

Erik carefully wrapped his arms around her torso, shyly at first, then so firmly she found herself a little breathless. He always clung so tightly when she let him… and for the first time in recent memory, she did not discourage him. She let him have his fill, absently stroking his dark hair while his hot tears soaked through her shirt. Little by little, she could feel him relaxing against her until suddenly, to her surprise, he let go. Turning away, Erik urgently pressed his nose hole to the inside of his hoodie with a series of noisy sniffles.

"Apologies… I'm disgusting," he mumbled thickly, to which she chose not to respond, and tried not to think about what he was doing.

Once he had straightened up, she gently cupped his chin in one hand, turning his face one way, then the other.

"It's not  _really_  that bad, you know," she observed thoughtfully.

At her remark, Erik fixed her with a dark, petulant look, almost comic in its tearful intensity. "Worse than a potato," he mumbled.

She laughed, getting to her feet. "A little bit." For good measure, she leaned forward to kiss his forehead, lest he take offense. "I'm gonna go call Mom. Tell her you said hi?"

Erik's face brightened almost imperceptibly, a slight smile lifting the corners of his thin, withered mouth. "Please. Sent my lo- ah, well wishes."

Something in her heart pinched at the melancholy in his voice. She forced a smile, ignoring it. "Will do. Call me for dinner if I don't come down."

The light in his eyes was gone again. "In a few hours."

Christine gave her husband one last smile before walking to the stairs. As she mounted the first step, wrapping her arms around herself, she glanced back to catch Erik staring regretfully at the mask on the table.


	12. Chapter 12

In April, Christine craved some fresh air and exercise beyond the beach, so Erik permitted her to join him on errands. It was an act of decency he would not repeat for many months.

The young man behind the grocery store register had been Christine's age; at most, two years older or younger—his fresh and sweet-looking face made it hard to tell. He wasn't exactly her type with dark shaggy hair falling into equally dark eyes and a septum piercing, but there was something about him. And when Christine accidentally made first eye contact with the boy, that's when he smiled. It was a very handsome smile. And of course, she smiled back.

Christine had responded without hesitation to… well, they hadn't really been advances, as such. It was more along the lines of simple, friendly conversation, which she had relished.

 _That's a healthy glow you have there, ma'am. Didn't I see you here the other day? No? I guess it must have been some other pretty lady_.

In retrospect, perhaps the chatting  _had_  veered into that gray area between good customer relations and flirtation; but it had been entirely harmless, because even if it  _had_ been flirting, she was seven months pregnant and wearing a wedding ring. It never would have gone anywhere. Most importantly, the young man wasn't remotely her type. It had just been a little bit of refreshing human interaction with someone her own age, the kind she missed from her barista days.

It should have been a non-event; to attach any sort of weight to the interaction seemed nothing short of ridiculous. Friendly conversation was simply what normal people did. Any sensible person could have seen that. But Erik, of course, was rarely sensible, even when she clung to his arm in the grocery check-out line like some blonde, bimbo trophy wife, and reassuringly stroked the back of his hand.

Erik remained quiet as they checked out, handing over cash to pay for their purchase in icy silence, staring at the boy with intense dislike. And in silence, he carried the groceries to the car, and in silence they drove home, Erik never glancing even once in her direction; his knuckles white on the steering wheel while he stared too pointedly to the road.

It wasn't until they pulled into the garage that she felt that first twinge of apprehension. He got out of the car a little too aggressively, as if grateful to no longer be breathing the same air as her, and snatched up the groceries from the backseat. Then, slamming the door shut, and stalked into the house without opening her side of the car.

Again, in hindsight, perhaps she shouldn't have rolled her eyes at how upset he seemed. Nevertheless, she followed him into the house quietly and obediently. She wasn't in the mood for a confrontation.

When she entered the kitchen, he was in the process of emptying bags and shoving items into cabinets as noisily as possible. His face set into a scowl, he did not bother to look in her direction, behaving as if she weren't even there.

With a sigh, she sat down at the table and struggled to pull off her shoes. Bracing one foot on her opposite thigh and rubbing it through the sock, Christine quietly watched him, glancing occasionally down at her other foot on the floor. Sometimes a little physical contact was all that was needed to defuse his bomb of a temper...

It was only once Erik had put away the perishables and set on the dried goods that he deigned to acknowledge Christine with a cool, aloof glare—and only because he had found the new bottle of lotion they had gotten at the bottom of a bag. He set it on the counter with a loud thump and continued on with unloading, slamming cabinet doors whenever possible.

Bait refused.

"He had a striking nose, I'll give you that much," Erik remarked darkly, apropos of nothing, finally breaking his cold silence. "Is that the shape that interests you now?"

Here it came, the rant he had bottled for twenty minutes.

Christine looked up and forced a confused expression on her face. She shook her head innocently. "I didn't notice his nose..."

"No, of course you didn't," he sneered. "With eyes like that, why would anyone bother looking elsewhere? Or those lips, even… And he certainly couldn't take  _his_  eyes off you..."

She rolled her eyes. "He was just being friendly."

Erik's jaw tightened and he turned to face her, hands turning into fists on the counter. "Come to think of it, you couldn't take your eyes off him either." Had he listened to a single word? Or was he already planning the murder? "What was it you found most attractive about him? For curiosity's sake. I'm always interested in cataloguing my deficiencies."

She paused, raising an eyebrow. "You're being dramatic. It was nothing."

"I find that hard to believe. Answer my question."

A flash of resentment in her eyes. "What did I think was most attractive? Mmm... he wasn't interrogating me over exchanging a few words with another human being. That was pretty hot."

"A few words would have been unremarkable," he snapped. "That was a conversation! You know, if I hadn't been standing there, I do wonder if he would have asked for your number. The wedding ring didn't seem to deter him..."

"Oh, no, not a  _conversation_!" She touched the back of her hand to her forehead, gasping theatrically, before breaking the act and shaking her head tiredly. "Guys don't tend to want pregnant girls, I've told you that." She stroked her stomach absentmindedly. "This guy tends to be a pretty strong deterrent."

"Tends to be.  _Tends to be._  Except for this fellow... You know, I do wonder... If you openly ogle shop boys like that when I'm standing right there beside you, I really do wonder what you would get up to when I'm not around..."

"Oh, get your head out of-" Christine sighed, deciding against finishing that particular sentence. "And you're never away anyway, so..."

But Erik would see it finished. "Get my head out of where?"

She shook her head and got up, moving into the kitchen to make herself coffee. "Your butt. You're being unreasonable."

Erik stepped in her way, peering down at her, jaw set. "I'm not being unreasonable! You  _laughed_  at his jokes and you  _never_  laugh at mine, and mine are better. He made far too much eye contact and what's worse, you reciprocated. It was like I wasn't even there."

Christine covered her face with both hands, laughing out of disbelief rather than amusement. "You're being ridiculous. We were both there, I don't see what's wrong with him talking to me. I just replied—rather than grunted—because that's what you do in polite company." She made a half-hearted attempt to squeeze past him, which proved rather a difficult endeavor with a beach ball protruding from her abdomen. "It was perfectly normal. You're overreacting."

The sound of her laughter caused him to stiffen, his eyes widening briefly in disbelief. "It was  _how_  you were talking to him!" he fairly roared. He let her pass, if only to step away from her in disgust. "If he chooses to flirt with you, that's one thing! But when you respond to his advances— _that_  is when I draw the line. Getting a little bored again, are we? Life not interesting enough for you? Nevermind I bend over backwards trying to accommodate you and see to your every need! It isn't as if you have a history of infatuations with boys you meet at registers..."

She ignored the jab. Raoul had been different. Raoul had been special. With Raoul, she hadn't realized she wasn't free to make her own choices because of a psychotically jealous stalker. Now, she was fully aware of that fact; she wouldn't endanger another innocent boy's life.

Christine fixed her eyes on her coffee grinder, silent for a moment. When she glanced up at him, she looked unusually calm. "Fine. How was I talking to him, exactly?"

"Oh, don't you play the innocent ingenue with me!" he snapped in exasperation, crossing his arms over his chest; his nails dug through his shirt into the thin muscle of his arms. "Do you want to know how I determine exactly when you're flirting? It's when you look at someone the way you never look at me.  _That_  is your tell!"

Christine softened minutely. "Are you seriously angry because he made too much  _eye contact_? Do you know how crazy that sounds?"

"Oh, it's absolutely justified! Eye contact is the easiest way humans foster a sense of intimacy and connection, something I rather hope you're aware of as infants require quite a lot of it. Yes, I'm angry at him for being so forward, but I'm even angrier at  _you_  for accepting and returning it!" He looked around the kitchen desperately as if looking for something to throw; his grip on his arms tightened instead.

Christine rubbed her forehead. "Don't you dare insinuate that sort of thing about me."

"Insinuate what?"

She turned to face him. "I was polite to some dude who probably has a lot of crappy days on minimum wage. That has nothing to do with him," here she put one arm protectively around her stomach, "or what sort of mother I'm going to be. You think I'm a skank for talking to some random guy I'll probably never see again, fine. But don't you dare try to say a damn thing about whether I know what my son needs."

"If that was polite, I'd love to see what happens when you interact with someone you actually like...  _Oh, wait_ ," he sneered. "And I shall say exactly whatever I damn well please, especially when you apparently do not understand the significance of eye contact in human interaction. It's a foregone conclusion I can fuck up a child up simply by looking at it; but I wasn't expecting that sort of ignorance from you."

Her eyes narrowed viciously. "And you wonder why I'm not affectionate towards you? Really?"

"I've never wondered," he spat. "I don't need to."

Christine rushed towards Erik, jabbing a finger at his chest. "Don't you dare  _accept_  that you're going to screw him up. You're not. You're going to be good to him and you're going to keep your ridiculous possessive crap the hell away from him, do you understand me?"

Erik, instead, stepped closer. "Oh, I'll be the best to him I can be—there's no question of that—but you can't guarantee I won't mess him up. In fact, it's certain I will because that is a distinct specialty of mine, if you hadn't already noticed. If I love someone, it destroys the relationship immediately. That's how it works. He will benefit from my indifference."

Christine hissed with frustration, glaring up at him. "No, he wouldn't. He is going to grow up knowing that his father loves him. Do I make myself clear?"

"Only if you're clear that this invites disaster."

"He is your son," she said, raising herself on the balls of her feet and jabbing him in the chest again, this time a little harder. "You are not going to let your stupid fear of rejection get in the way of his development. Am I clear?"

"Oh, stupid, is it?" He snatched at her hand and squeezed it unpleasantly tight. "I wasn't aware how unrealistic it was. How silly. Please, do enlighten me."

Christine shrank from his touch, but did not try to free herself. "You're married, aren't you? You'll be married for twenty years. That's more than a lot of people will ever be able to say."

"Our marriage is considerably more than anyone will ever be able to say," he said coldly, "but it means nothing. If I had proposed without any ultimatum, you would have rejected me the second I got on my knees. We both know that. You didn't marry me because you wanted me, nor have you ever. Mother only..." The muscles in his temple shifted as he swallowed his words. "And everyone else… They've only ever wanted me for my services. God forbid I want anything more than a paycheck, otherwise it's suddenly 'oh, would you look at the time? Sorry, Erik, no can do!' Rejection is the most realistic fear I have and don't you  _dare_  dismiss it at ridiculous. Do I make myself clear?"

"He won't want anything from you but to know you love him. I'm sure you know what that's like."

His grip was growing tighter. She tried to tug herself away, but Erik refused to let go.

"I do," he said. "And you will both regret it."

She tried again. "Excuse me, are you threatening me?"

"It's not a threat. It's an observation based on experience." This time he let go in disgust. "You would have been much happier not knowing I loved you. And so will he, if it comes to that. My love is an unwelcome burden."

Christine rubbed her wrist, sighing in defeat. "Maybe. I mean, probably. But I do know you love me. And it's the only thing I have in my life. It's the only thing he's going to have. I'll be damned if you withhold one of the few things he's going to be able to have."

"You are the only person in his life that will matter." He turned away to continue putting away the last of the groceries. "He'll have your family's love and, if he's lucky, that of friends. He'll be fine without me."

Christine crossed her arms, leaning heavily against the counter. "He's not going to be born genetically predisposed to hating you, you know."

Erik snorted with laughter. "He's not going to be born genetically predisposed to loving me, either. I do not expect that from him, nor should you."

She sighed. Depressingly, he sort of had a point. And if he wasn't going to make an attempt, there was no guarantee any affection at all would ever spring up between Erik and her son... The thought filled her with dark, crushing exhaustion. There was still time to make this work.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna go watch TV," she said quietly. "My feet hurt. Sorry for upsetting you." She turned to hobble away to the media room.

"I'm sure you are," Erik replied flatly without any attempt to sound convincing, moving towards the liquor cabinet to pour himself a shot. "And I assure you, if you persist in these flirtations, I will have no choice but to dispose of said fellow along with… the  _other._ Perhaps next time you won't engage in unnecessary socialization next time you leave the house. "

She stopped, trying to ignore the urgent wave of fury washing over her. She was  _trying_ to apologize.

"Am I not allowed to talk to people?" she snapped. "Is that a rule now?"

"You may speak to the Johnsons, but beyond them, I'd prefer you speak to women only," he said, not looking in her direction. He tossed back his drink.

"That's ridiculous. Besides, women aren't automatically safe. Oh, wait, no, do I need to start every conversation with 'wait, sorry, are you a lesbian? 'Cause if you are my husband says I can't talk to you, sorry, bye'?"

This time Erik turned around and fixed her with a pointed look of irritation. "Are you a lesbian, Christine? Are you sexually or romantically interested in women?"

She crossed her arms, glaring again. "I wasn't particularly interested in that guy today, but it didn't stop you freaking out over it, so I guess it wouldn't matter if the answer was yes."

"If you weren't particularly interested, then don't act like it," he growled, pouring another drink. "But then again, I seem to remember you excel at encouraging men's interest when it is in your best interests not to."

"Forgive me for wanting to feel wanted for two minutes," she grumbled, not rising to the bait of that snide comment. She didn't have the strength for that at the moment.

"How the hell do you not feel wanted?" Erik exploded, setting down the tumbler so swiftly it almost cracked. She flinched at the sudden, escalating noise. "No, you want me to forgive you for wanting to feel wanted by someone who isn't me. Don't you fucking  _dare_  try to suggest I don't want you or try to make you feel wanted."

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting. There's a difference between feeling wanted and feeling like someone thinks you'd make a good slave." Though her eyes narrowed, she trembled. "And I know which it is for you. Don't try to tell me otherwise."

Erik's eyes flashed and he hurled the tumbler to the floor. It shattered and chipped the tile. "Oh, yes," he hissed. "Yes, obviously when I fall in love, I make sure it's someone I think will make a good slave. Too fucking right you are. What demands have I made of you recently that I haven't made of myself, eh?"

Christine sighed. "I need to sit down," she said stiffly, returning on her path to the media room.

Erik followed swiftly. "Then sit down. I would like to hear your answer."

While she was facing away from him, Christine allowed a look of distaste to pass over her face, and she didn't even have the satisfaction of flopping onto the couch—that sort of thing had become a physical impossibility at least a month ago—but lowered herself slowly down with a few uncomfortable groans. She took a moment to pause and try to wrangle the socks from her feet, but couldn't quite reach. She collapsed her head on the back of the couch with an out-of-breath sigh.

Erik, jaw set, dutifully bent over to remove them, then tossed them aside. Then he straightened and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her expectantly.

Christine glared at him. "Thank you," she hissed through her teeth, crossing her arms as grumpily as she could.

"I apologize that my best efforts to express my love and make you feel wanted are so reprehensible and disgusting," he murmured in a cold, flat voice. "I am doing the best I fucking can. I readily confess to no practical experience and I find it frustrating that the methods used to such success by others utterly fail when I try them for you. I will be the first to admit I am clumsy, incompetent, and stupid, which is why I find it disturbing is that—in spite of your unhappy objections—you are so eager to have my blundering, distasteful attempts foisted onto an innocent child."

She sighed, hiding her face in her hands to disguise that there was the sting of tears in her eyes. She tried to master her breathing to no avail. "I just want him to be happy," she whispered. "I just want him to have a mom and a dad and be normal and be happy. And you can help. That's all."

"Given that his father is abnormal and has consistently failed to bring happiness to anyone, least of all his wife—the one he loves most—I think we need to be realistic. He will have a beautiful, normal, loving mother and that is all a boy really needs. That will make him happy."

"It would make me happy, too, if you tried."

"Tried to what? To be normal? What the hell do you think I'm doing?"

Before she could open her mouth to respond, a phone rang. Even stranger, it was a default ringtone, which Erik loathed and never used. They stared at one another as he extracted his cell from his pocket with evident displeasure. But after looking it over, he arched an eyebrow and turned his gaze upon her, full of suspicion.

"It's yours," he said coldly. "Who is it?"

With difficulty, Christine fished her cell from her pocket. She glanced over the screen, expression carefully neutral, but a genuine smile of surprise broke through before she could stop it. A knot of tension released in her chest, one she hadn't realized she had until now.

"It's Ghaz," she announced.

Erik unfurled his hand imperiously, palm up. "Let me see, please."

Holding the phone protectively to her chest, she turned the screen in his direction, just long enough to verify name and number, but refused to surrender it. Erik's eyes narrowed and his expression darkened.

"May I talk to him?" Christine asked with exaggerated politeness that came out a little snippier than she intended. "Or is that not allowed anymore?"

He stared at her a moment, mouth open, before a sneer overtook his face. "Of course you can," he relented bitterly. "Only tell him his timing is  _deplorable."_ Then, with a sour glare and to her surprise, he stormed from the media room into the kitchen.

One missed call.

Heart pounding, she redialed the number and pressed the phone eagerly to her ear.

"Hey!" she chirped when the line connected. "Sorry about that! Perfect timing."

"Oh, really? Dare I ask?" Ghaz replied, and she felt her stomach flutter not unpleasantly. Like Erik, he had a low, melodious voice; but unlike Erik, she immediately felt safe when she heard him. A desire to be back in Chicago  _right now_  welled up inside her.

"No." A little too sharp. Whoops. "It's just always great to hear from you," she said. "How've you been?"

"I've been well enough, all things considered. I've finally been promoted to head of computer forensics after far too long."

"That's awesome! Congratulations!"

"Unfortunately, we're still overwhelmed and understaffed as usual, but no rest for the wicked…"

"Anything interesting you can talk about?"

"Nothing specific, only… change your passwords frequently and never give them out to people claiming to be IT. Promise me?" He sounded weary.

Christine smiled ruefully to herself. Not that it mattered in her case. The only person in the world who wanted it could always guess it or crack it no matter what she changed it to. And if she changed it, Erik would be the first to know, demanding what she was hiding… Suddenly she felt a little weary herself.

"I'll change them tonight," she replied all the same. "How's 'password1234'?"

"Very funny."

"What's Darius been up to? Tell him I loved the beautiful flowers he sent, by the way. They're very thoughtful, except I think he's under the impression I've got cancer or something..."

Ghaz laughed. "He means well, but he mistrusts Erik a great deal. No matter how often Erik reports happily wedded bliss in the home, he can't believe it… So it seemed as good a reason as any to catch up with you, if that's alright. Hear from you myself. It's been far too long since we've talked anyway."

Of course Erik said that. Christine rolled her eyes and dusted off her perky barista voice. "Oh, Ghaz, you don't ever need a reason to call. Things are fine. I'm healthy, my due date's in a few weeks, and Erik is fulfilling my expectations. He really keeps an eye on me."

"Are you happy?"

She stared at the ceiling while she turned words over in her head. Beyond a doubt, Erik was listening from the other room, or would replay this conversation at a future date; either way, she would be held accountable for anything said.

"I have my baby," she said. "I'm as happy as I can be."

"I must admit, I'm surprised myself that he's on board with this. Can I ask how you convinced him?"

Again, she chose her words carefully. "Just that it would make me happy. The vodka didn't hurt, either."

"He's still drinking?"

"Yeah."

"Ah."

Christine couldn't read the emotion in that one, brief sound. Was it surprise? Had he—like her—been naive enough to suppose Erik capable of sobriety now that a hated rival no longer threatened his vision of the future? Or was she confirming what Ghaz suspected from a distance—that not even a dream bride and a dream wedding could soothe the dysfunction Erik drowned with drink?

"Not as much as he used to," she found herself mumbling, face reddening, and not entirely sure if she was lying. In the awkward pause that followed, she tried to redirect the conversation to more comfortable topics. "Are you still planning on visiting this summer?"

"Yes, I'm saving up my vacation days, though I can't promise anything." The easy warmth had returned. "Sometime in August, perhaps?"

"August is perfect. I'd really like it if you could. We've got a great kitchen Darius would love, plus a beautiful view from the guest bedroom."

"So I've been told."

"And… If it's possible, I was hoping…"

"Yes?"

Christine hesitated before continuing. "Erik talked to you and Darius about being the baby's godparents, right?"

"Yes, he has, and we're very honored. Thank you."

"What I want for my son is for him to have a relationship with his uncles. I know you're busy doing important things, but I was hoping maybe you guys could visit regularly. Once a summer or every other summer. Whatever works for you."

What she didn't dare say aloud, so as not to give Erik the final excuse he wanted not to try, was that she wanted her boy's formative years influenced by at least a couple good men she respected, regardless of whether Erik rose to the challenge of fatherhood. And some normalcy in the house wouldn't do any harm either; they were in really short supply of it.

The line was quiet and Christine wondered if she had asked too much. She'd never been that close with Ghaz to begin with. But his goodness was clear; he'd always looked out for her.

"I think that sounds like a grand idea," Ghaz replied softly after a moment. "Darius does complain I don't take him out often enough."

"Don't feel pressure or anything, but it'd be awesome if you'd consider it."

"I'll see what we can do. Listen, I've got to get back to work now, but it's really great to hear from you, Christine. We should talk more often."

"Yeah, we should. Send Darius my love."

"I will."

When the line went dead, Christine slipped the phone back into her pocket and sighed, rubbing her sternum as if that would soothe the empty aching. She missed him so much.

In the silence of the house, she could hear the dark thrum of Kodály's solo cello sonata from the studio. Good. She was tired of dealing with her divo husband. But moody, ominous, and thick with triple stops, his choice of repertoire only encouraged the oppressive weight she could feel returning to her chest. Even though he was out of sight, the music always seemed to occupy the space he wasn't, reminding her he would never, ever leave her side. It hurt to breathe. Too tired to move, too heavy to run, Christine rolled to her side and covered her ears.

August couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

 **A/N:**  Hi everyone! Long time no see!

We're so,  _so_  sorry for how long it's been since the last update, but life likes to get in the way of things. One of us has been preparing for grad school while the other unexpectedly got into a Bachelor of Music program on the absolute opposite side of the country which, while awesome, has put a time zone difference of 14 hours between us - so it's been a bit of a challenge to find time anywhere to write.

Nevertheless, we don't want you guys to stress about us never updating; we actually have about twenty or more chapters of unpublished content written and waiting for final editing. Also, we know exactly where this story is going and have planned to the end, so don't worry about the story being abandoned. Thanks for your continued support! We cherish and discuss every single review you leave. We'll try to have the next update up as soon as we can. Thank you for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

It had been, by Christine's estimation, eight months and one week, to the day. And though she knew she'd brought it upon herself, that didn't detract from how utterly sick of the whole thing she was. She was finished with being pregnant.

This was normal, Erik told her.

Messed up pregnancy dreams now plagued her nights. Many were pleasant, if not bittersweet: blue-eyed, golden-haired babies gurgling at her in a small house with no husbands. Others were strange, like giving birth to litters of little black kittens and not having enough baskets to put them in. And some were terrifying. In the most recurring scenario, she was paralyzed in a hospital bed, stuck with needles and wires, unable to look away from a faceless corpse child swaddled at her breast.

These she didn't tell her husband about, but she imagined a rational Erik who wasn't offended by the products generated by her unconscious mind would also tell her they were normal.

That particular evening she struggled to get comfortable again on the couch in the media room—the  _other_ couch—after what felt like the hundredth trip to the bathroom that day. Feeling like a beached whale, she swung her aching, bare feet up onto a cushion and resumed surfing through Erik's 500 channels of satellite television. The infomercials wouldn't begin for another few hours, so she switched to his dubiously legal film collection instead, but nothing there could pique her interest either. Her groan of boredom startled Edgar from his grooming on the arm of the sofa, and she apologized.

The coffee dreams were the worst of all. Only one thing now prevented her from returning that joy to her life and it woke her in cold sweats at night. The idea hadn't seemed so terrible eight months ago, or even two, but now her stomach felt constantly knotted with anxiety. It was almost enough to make her wish she hadn't ever thought of seducing Erik.

Almost.

In the distance, a piano played.

Whatever peace Erik had achieved with the idea of a baby was audibly deteriorating. She heard him rather than saw him these days. The air thrummed with apprehension and stress as he relentlessly he wove subjects she did not recognize into complex counterpoint, dropping voice after voice into an increasingly breathless whirl that strained against the suffocating structure he imposed upon it, yet never tore free. Erik seemed to break out into fugues the way normal people developed hives.

The music resonated with the anxiety quivering in her gut, and for a few moments she could forget it was there. Instead of turning up the television volume, she listened for a while.

Christine must have dozed because she woke to the sensation of being watched. It was far too quiet. Blearily, she glanced around and discovered Erik leaning in the doorway of the media room, his arms crossed over his chest, regarding her with a curious expression from behind the mask; one that was all-too-familiar in recent weeks. It was horror and revulsion. The tightness of his mouth gave him away.

Dropping her gaze to the floor, cheeks burning, she tugged her shirt further down over her belly as if a thin layer of fabric could disguise just how grossly pregnant she was. Edgar was now perched on the armrest behind her head, watching Erik unblinkingly through half-lidded eyes.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Erik asked softly, his mouth and eyes softening. The disgust was gone. "Is there anything I can get you?"

'I feel like gnawing my own left hand off and feeding it to the cat' didn't feel like a particularly civil sentence, so she shook her head. "What were you playing today?"

"Some personal nonsense, mostly. Why do you ask?"

He never talked about his music.

She reached awkwardly over her shoulder to scratch Edgar reassuringly, then looked back at the TV. "No reason. Feeling any better?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Are you hungry at all? How are your feet?"

"I ate a little while ago. Haven't moved since then." Christine glanced cursorily at her swollen feet and ankles. "I'm good."

"So there's... nothing I can do for you?"

A sigh. It was the same stilted conversation they'd had all week. With the baby room painted, the crib assembled, and the dresser now containing all the accoutrements of infanthood, they couldn't be any more prepared without looking like a Babies'R'Us.

She looked up at him as he wrung his hands. "I could do with a glass of water, if you're not busy, I guess. Thanks."

"Of course I'm not busy," he replied, smiling thinly. He promptly disappeared and returned a moment later with a tall glass of water, iced, which he brought to her. "Do you mind if I sit with you a little?"

Groaning, Christine set her feet back onto the floor, patting the cushion next to her as invitingly as she could. She accepted the glass and held it on her thigh, not drinking, otherwise she would be forced to get up in another five minutes and she simply couldn't be bothered.

"Oh, you don't need to sit up on my account," he assured her quietly, taking the far end of the couch to demonstrate. "I don't take up much space, honestly. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

She smiled lightly. "I don't mind. I should probably try to be getting some exercise... do you think sitting up counts?"

"How about we say yes?" He returned her smile awkwardly and shifted closer, though maintaining at least a solid foot of distance between them. Edgar was still eyeing Erik with disapproval. "I was doing a little reading," he said, "and they say that massages are good for expectant mothers, especially around this time... What they suggest is a little beyond my abilities, however. I was wondering if you would like me to call your doctor for recommendations?"

Christine sighed. "But I'd have to go out."

"I'm certain we could find someone who would be willing to make a house call... but a little walking would do you good, don't you think?"

She narrowed her eyes with good humor. "No. No, it wouldn't."

"But you just said you should probably try getting some exercise..." Erik spoke carefully, watching her with equal attention.

"I don't want to." She may have sounded a little whiny, but she'd earned it, damn it. "And I know you don't want some stranger coming into the house."

At that, Erik smirked, half-obscured by the mask. "I know you don't want to," he replied soothingly. "But it might help a little. Besides, a massage by a professional who knows what they're doing would be worth it, wouldn't it?"

She frowned. It did sound amazing. "It's frivolous. You can do my feet, that's enough."

"It isn't frivolous if it makes you feel better. It helps a great deal swelling and aches, I'm told," he murmured, discreetly looking her over as if capable of identifying these places at a glance. "Are you feeling stressed at all?"

"No," she snapped too quickly. Stressed? What on  _earth_  could she  _possibly_  be stressed about?

Erik hesitated, then glanced away to the TV at a sitcom neither of them had been paying attention to. "What's troubling you? I'd like to help, if I can." A frown appeared.

Christine frowned too. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the screen. "I'm here to serve you, Christine. And at this stage, I don't want you to be experiencing any undue stress... The baby could be born any week now. We ought to schedule another appointment, just in case..." He pulled out his phone and glanced down at the screen with a growing frown.

"I know that." Her voice was trembling despite her frustration. "Do you think I don't know that?"

He looked back to her, slowly, his eyes now blank and unreadable. "Of course you know that. You know that better than I do, I'm sure... If... If you're anxious about the, ah... delivery, I'm certain it might help to talk to someone. Hilary, perhaps. She wouldn't mind coming over to visit for a little, I don't think."

"I... no, she doesn't need to. I don't want to put her out." Christine was fidgeting, picking at her sleeve.

"She's your friend, isn't she? Friends aren't supposed to mind visiting and talking, especially not when someone is upset. Isn't that the case?" He continued to fuss with his phone. "It's been a while since we've seen them. You could call her even."

She rubbed at her eyes, completely ruining the little bit of mascara and eyeliner she'd bothered with. "I don't want to. It's bad enough you have to see me all gross."

"If you're gross, then I worry what that makes me," he teased.

She attempted to remove her smudged makeup with her fingertips. "I must look like a fat, demented panda. All the time." She stopped, frustrated, and wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach.

"As it just so happens, I like fat, demented pandas. Besides, it's only for a little longer and then you'll be back to normal in no time..." Cautiously, he reached out to squeeze her shoulder with a firm, but reassuring pressure. "You're almost done."

There was a tenderness in his voice that made her throat knot. She closed her eyes. "I'm really scared."

There, she had said it, but she didn't feel any better for it. Here she was like an idiot offering up yet another weakness for Erik to systematically exploit. Yet she had to admit, it felt very strange to contend with a fear that existed utterly independent of him. It was almost comforting in a way.

Emboldened, Erik rubbed her upper back, or at least what he could reach of it. "What scares you?"

Again, the gentleness in his tone, in his touch, made hot tears burn in her eyes. Why couldn't he be like this all the time?

"Mom died. I could die." Christine fought to keep her breathing steady. "I could die. He could..." Her arms tightened around herself. Her mother survived the birth that started her down a road to ill health and eventual death, but only just. If one more thing went wrong for her than had for her mother, Christine or her baby could die. Or worse. "Nothing can happen to him."

Erik's hand stopped moving for a telling second. "I thought your mother passed away later than that."

"She did, but I made her really sick. She didn't get better."

"You aren't your mother. Besides, you have the best doctor I could find and he says everything is exactly as it should be," he assured her in a low, calm voice. "You've done everything you're supposed to do and, on the remotest chance something does go wrong, we'll be at a hospital and they'll be able to fix it."

Her face was serious. "You won't get rid of him if I get sick and can't take care of him, will you?"

A too-long pause preceded Erik's response. "I don't think worrying about remote and unlikely what-ifs right now is helpful."

She looked at him with what was almost a glare. "Promise me you'll keep him."

"I promise," he assured her with a worryingly facile shrug of his shoulders. "Though someone else would be able to take better care of him than I ever could, you know."

The glare intensified. "I don't care."

"You truly want me to keep your son?" he asked softly, incredulously. "You would actually entrust the future of your child into my care?"

" _Your_ son," she corrected viciously-an automatic habit these days. Her cheeks flushed and she opened her mouth to say more, but a kick derailed her thoughts. She frowned and rubbed her stomach to placate the baby. A sigh. "You woke him up," she said accusingly.

"How could I have possibly woken him up?"

"You pissed me off. He felt it." She closed her eyes with a groan. "You've gotta stop doing this."

"Stop doing what?"

"Acting like this," Her face was hard. Christine rubbed her stomach with a wince, hoping he would settle without forcing her to take a walk. "You're his father whether you like it or not." An observation she was also tired of stating. But if she said it often enough, perhaps he'd finally internalize it, the way he did his own lies.

"I will concede that on technicality, but I cannot raise a child, Christine. I'm not you. I didn't... I never signed on for children." He slouched back against the couch and glared absently at the television. "But you aren't going to get sick. And if you do, I will look after you because you can't go anywhere. I need you." Then, he amended as an afterthought: "We both need you."

"I'm not going to get sick," she repeated hollowly. She glanced at him. "I'm sure  _you'd_  cope without me." There was a slight smile on her face, though she didn't feel it.

There was no humor in his voice. "Not for long. I'm tired of merely coping."

The smile went away. "Have you been 'merely coping' for the past two years, then?"

"No, I was 'merely coping' until I married you. And if you were gone… I don't want to go back to that... I can't and I won't."

Christine sniffed and rubbed at her wet eyes with her fingers, further smearing her makeup. Then she pursed her lips. "I'll have to stick around then."

"You're contractually obligated, I should hope so. I can't live without you, you know that."

The room suddenly felt too small; so did the house. Christine resisted the need to pull away from him. "Please don't say things like that."

"When it's the truth, why not?"

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"I don't know. How would you feel if I said, in all seriousness, that... it... it doesn't compare, I guess, but... I asked nicely. Please don't."

"What doesn't compare?"

"I don't feel about you the same way you feel about me. It's different."

Erik blinked in confusion, frowning. "Why does that matter?"

She pouted and made to get up, setting her untouched glass of water on the coffee table. "I don't want to think about death any more than I have to, thank you very much."

Erik's frown intensified and he immediately stood to offer her a hand. "It isn't flattering to know someone loves you that much?"

Christine refused it, and barely managed to get up. Erik awkwardly pushed his hands into his pockets, as though trying to retroactively retract his offer without either of them noticing.

"I guess, if you look at it that way," she said, a little out of breath. "But it still isn't nice to think about."

"I see," he muttered quietly, unconvinced. "Well, I won't say it again, then, if it bothers you that much. Can I still tell you I love you from time to time, or is that objectionable, too?"

She waddled awkwardly for the doorway to the kitchen. "I doubt I could stop you doing that even if I wanted to."

"But if you could, would you?" he asked gloomily. Like a shadow, he followed slowly, keeping pace with her.

She paused, catching her breath. "No."

At that, Erik smiled a little, if only to himself. "I'm glad. Because I love you, Christine, and I'm going to look after you. Don't worry about anything."

She gave a sardonic smile as she crossed the kitchen and set about making some coffee. "Spoken like a true Prince Charming."

"You're kind to say so," Erik said dryly, lingering in the doorway. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to Hilary?"

"Can you get the milk for me, please?" She was struggling to reach for a mug. "No need to bother her."

Erik wordlessly did as he was told, fetching the soy milk from the fridge and setting it on the counter. Then, moving towards her, he brushed behind her with a soft apology as he reached up to grab the mug in question. The kitchen felt so small when they were both in it. He handed it to her. "But you're still worried."

She pouted good-naturedly with a nod of thanks. "I'll be worried till this freakin' kid is out of me."

He leaned back against the counter, hands in his pockets. "I suppose I would be worried, too, in your place..." Erik frowned, watching the floor a moment in silence, then glanced to her. "Do you... want me to be there when it happens, or would you prefer I be elsewhere?"

She grinned. For such a smart guy, he could be a little stupid. "Oh, please. I need to have someone there."

Erik smiled uncertainly, eyes flicking back and forth as he searched her face. "Why's that?"

A small laugh escaped as she picked up the carton. "Like I need to look any more like an unmarried teen mom."

"You don't look like an unmarried teen mom."

She smiled. "How old do I look to you?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I… couldn't say. I certainly wouldn't say a teenager..."

The smile persisted. "You must have some idea, though."

"Your early twenties, but that's because I know how old you are," he said, watching her with embarrassment. "But... I suppose you do look... young for your age-alright, yes, I see your point..."

She nudged him with her shoulder. "Of course you do." She paused, taking a moment to pour herself a cup of decaf and stir in a bit of soy. "I'm going to have to start buying real coffee again soon."

"I promise to pick some up the day we get home from the hospital," he assured her, contemplating the liquor cabinet. "Baby in one arm, coffee mug in the other. I imagine you'll be quite happy."

She frowned. "You'll hold him for a while, won't you?"

"I... I suppose I could," he admitted reluctantly. "If you show me how. I've never… held one before. Properly, anyway, if you can believe it. Not by itself."

Christine allowed another grin. "Of course I'll show you. Can't have you dropping him."

"That would be horrible," Erik muttered, covering his eyes with a hand, mortified.

She punched his arm lightly. "Relax, I was joking. You'd deprive me of something I wanted before you dropped him." Something, of course, that wasn't freedom, but that always went without saying.

His hand remained where it was, not looking at her; he shook his head. "Is it easy to drop them? When you're holding them on their own? Because they are very unmanageable when they get bigger."

She smiled. "Not newborns. You'll just have to support his head."

He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. "That doesn't seem too difficult. I suppose I can manage that... Have you handled many newborns?"

She sighed and moved to the table. "Not really, unfortunately. I'll be learning too."

Erik remained where he stood, watching her with a frown. "Ah."

She looked back at him. "What?"

"When did Mrs Giry say she was coming?"

She looked distinctly offended. "What're you trying to say?"

"Nothing, only that... well, infants are complicated, aren't they? It would be reassuring to have someone in the house who knows what's going on, if only for a little while. It's what grandmothers do, as I understand it." He didn't meet her eyes.

She was glaring. "I can take care of my own son."

"I meant no disrespect, I was simply concerned. It wouldn't be a bad thing, wouldn't it?" He chanced a glance in her direction, only for his gaze to fall back to the floor.

"No." She hardened again. "But I don't  _need_  her here."

"You don't want her here, either."

"I do. Just not straight away."

Erik sighed quietly, his frown growing pronounced. "It just seems like we never see your family..."

Christine felt a frown of her own forming. "Why does that upset you so much?"

He continued staring at the floor, not immediately answering. "I don't know. It just seems... wrong to have a family and never see them, especially if you love them and they love you. If I had a family like that, I'd see them all the time if I could. They must miss you."

"You're going to have that," she reminded him, hand on her belly. "And we will see them. They're just busy people."

Erik shrugged off her comment. "Once the baby is born, perhaps we could go see them, if they're so busy. I haven't really met them properly."

"You gonna wear a face around them?"

"Of course."

"Oh."

"They won't recognize me otherwise."

How exactly were they meant to keep a charade like that up for twenty years?

"They're your family too."

Erik finally looked up at her, his eyes narrowing briefly in confusion. "I don't follow."

She was frowning. "You're my husband. They are."

"On technicality, yes..." he spoke slowly. "But we hardly know each other and... that's what makes a family. You can't be strangers."

"No, it's not." Her expression went blank. She still felt sometimes that there was a screen between her adopted family and herself - there were things about her they didn't know, and there were things about her family of which she'd never be aware. "Family cares. That's all."

Erik crossed his arms over his chest, watching her intently, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. "I... I suppose that's true but... it has to be mutual, doesn't it?"

"Do you care for them, Erik?"

"...Yes?" he answered hesitantly as if it were a trick question.

Christine's face didn't change. "I mean it. Do you?"

"Yes, I do. Why?"

"They care about you. That's close enough to family, isn't it?"

This information caused him to frown. "How do you know that?"

She lifted a foot onto her thigh, rubbing it idly. "Because you're my husband, and they're good people, so they do."

"It's as easy as that?"

She shrugged. "For some people."

"I see…" Erik sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'd still like to spend time with them all the same. If I have family now, as you say, I want to make the best of it."

Her expression turned long-suffering. "You can call them, then. Tell them you're excited to show off your new baby boy."

"I have your permission then?" His tone remained carefully neutral.

She glanced at her now-cold coffee. As if he had ever asked her permission to interact with them in the past. "I don't care either way. If you want."

The truth was she did care. She didn't want them liking him more than they already did. And she certainly didn't want them liking him more than they liked her, which had seemed like such a dangerous possibility the week he introduced himself behind her back. No one could spin a sob story like Erik.

"Then I will," he said softly, turning away to the liquor cabinet. He removed the half-empty bottle of vodka and poured himself a shot. "I'd like to spend time with my new mother-in-law."

"Your mother-in-law is only... what, fourteen years older than you? Does that weird you out at all?"

Erik tossed it back, then promptly refilled the glass. He regarded her with a shrug. "I hadn't really thought about it, honestly, though I can hardly hold that against her. My own mother is only five years older than that."

Thoughts of Erik's mother rarely crossed Christine's mind, yet amid the anger she felt towards her, she couldn't help but feel a small pang of pity. At 21, Christine felt overwhelmed by even a 'planned' baby, while Erik's mother had still been a teenager and clearly not coped well with the ordeal.

Christine watched as Erik downed the second shot and set the tumbler next to the sink.

"Have I upset you?" she asked.

"What makes you say that?"

"Why are you drinking?"

"It's that time of the evening."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's two shots. That's hardly anything."

Christine rose laboriously to her feet, taking her mug in her hands. "What sort of example does that set?"

"It's a couple drinks," he repeated incredulously. "I hardly call it excessive."

"You can't be drinking every night around him." She tipped her coffee out into the sink. "We've got enough bad habits we're going to pass on."

"I hardly call this drinking," he muttered. "But if it bothers you so much, I'll keep it to myself."

Christine was so sick of alcohol.

She had vivid memories of her own father sitting in a dim living room with a half-empty bottle next to him. He'd been a vodka man as well; a melancholy, ultimately benign drunk, who smiled at her and warbled his own compositions to himself when he'd had too much—which wasn't often, in his defense, but enough that she still had to make her own sandwiches in the mornings sometimes.

Early on, Erik had been that kind of drunk, too. After they first met in person, she had preferred him inebriated because it made him sedate and docile. At worst he'd cry at her feet or text her increasingly incoherent messages. She knew how to deal with that. She had practice. But as her relationship with her boyfriend deepened, he became rapidly unstable. One moment he'd be sobbing pathetically at the kitchen counter, the next he'd be raging and openly expressing his violent fantasies of murdering Raoul or his brother. He never touched her, but he had words enough to frighten her. Since the wedding, the docile drunk had returned, but she had seen enough to know what he was capable of.

Christine frowned and glanced at Erik. "We'll pretend to be normal, won't we?"

"Why wouldn't we?" He blinked at her. "We're going to be as normal as possible."

"I've been... thinking."

"About what?"

She was blushing. "About... when he's a little older. Old enough to... realize."

Erik regarded the color in her face with mild alarm. "Realize what?"

"That we're not... traditional. Or, I guess we are." She was staring at the floor. Victorian traditional.

"What do you mean?"

She was bright red. "The separate bedrooms thing."

He regarded the empty shot glass intently. "I doubt he'll think much of it. That will be normal for him. In fact, I imagine he will find it strange when he learns some spouses share the same room. I really wouldn't worry about it, Christine."

She glanced at him. "I do worry about it. He has to be able to make normal relationships."

"What, and you think I'll teach him anything useful? That will be your job. And... he'll hopefully have friends and certainly your family to learn from. I really don't think knowing his parents sleep in separate bedrooms is really going to hinder his social development terribly much." He met her eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line. "I imagine a lot of couples sleep alone."

Her eyes shot back to the floor. "Just... just think about it for me, okay?"

"Are... you asking me to share your bedroom, Christine?"

Erik used to do a shot every time his surveillance caught her kissing Raoul. It was one item on a lengthy drinking game he wrote for her date nights, documenting all the affection and sweet nothings they exchanged. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so sad or made her so furious.

If she wanted him to curb his drinking, maybe it would help...

Christine turned away slightly in mortification, wondering if she could ever look him in the eye again. "I'm... asking you to consider it. In... not straight away."

"If... you think that best, then... I... I will consider it. But with... certain conditions."

She was able to breathe again. "Yes?"

Erik, on the other hand, was not. His ears were red, but his voice was steady. "I want you on birth control."

She was silent a moment. "Okay. Anything else?"

"That's all, really," he mumbled. "It's for... accidents."

"I'm sure there won't be too many more of those."

Erik shook his head quickly, staring at the floor. "None. Absolutely none, I promise, but it's... I'd rather be safe than sorry, you understand. There are other... other procedures that could be done-that really  _should_  be done-but I hate doctors, Christine, and... I'm sure you can agree it's a good idea."

Other procedures.

She felt dizzy.

"I'm not doing that." She put her arms around herself. "I know you'd prefer that, probably, but..." She shuddered. "No. Suppose I got remarried. No."

Erik blinked at her, then his eyes widened. "No... I meant..." He reached for the vodka and poured another shot, staring at it. "I didn't mean you. I meant… I meant  _me_ ," he snapped, and tossed it back, grimacing.

"It's not necessary." She paused. "We just... won't."

"Oh, yes. Because that worked  _so well before_ ," he said darkly and returned the glass to the sink.

Embarrassed anger flared in her stomach.

"Don't blame me for your being a randy old man," she snapped before she could stop herself.

Erik turned to stare at her, eyes and voice hard. "Excuse me? I missed the part where I blamed you."

"It sounded like it." She shrank a little, with a noncommittal "sorry".

"Well I wasn't," he snapped, glaring. "I already admitted it was my fault. Repeatedly. I've already told you I felt awful about it and I never once blamed you for what happened. I made the mistake, not you. And where do you get off calling me a randy old man anyway?"

"I said sorry," she hissed, crossing her arms. "I think you're old enough to handle one insult."

"Which you didn't retract. All things considered, I think I have done a damn good job keeping to myself. You have no right to call me that."

"Except you  _are_ , so I don't see a need to."

"I'm not  _that_  old!"

"You sort of are. Nearly forty. You're ancient."

"If I'm ancient, what does that make your mother? Prehistoric?"

"I'm not married to my mother."

"I don't see why it matters what age I am. It doesn't affect you."

"So, what, I can't have an opinion?"

"What is the point of having an opinion on that? Unless you enjoy thinking of yourself as the blonde trophy wife to a rich, randy old man, in which case I certainly can't stop you, though I shouldn't think it would be very flattering." His gaze darkened. "I'm  _not_  that old."

"Did I upset you again?" she asked with a flippant laugh.

"And what kind of example is that going to set?" he echoed coolly.

She smirked. "We'll just have to keep our little arguments behind closed doors. That's the appropriate thing, right?"

"Yes, I'll make certain I'm only considerate to you behind closed doors, because that apparently causes you to fling insults in my face. He's going to learn to form healthy relationships so quickly as a result!"

Her smile didn't fade. "You're really mad right now, aren't you?"

The quiet, mature part of her knew she was being childish and rude and yet she felt like they were newlyweds again, when she loved nothing more than the satisfaction of aggravating her husband. A familiar, perverse kind of contentment warmed her chest. It felt good. A therapist would have a field day with that, but she didn't care.

"I should think you know me well enough to know what really mad looks like." He grabbed the bottle of vodka and began to head from the kitchen up the hall to his studio.

She pouted. "Don't leave."

He stopped and turned to look at her, eyes narrowed. "What? A few more unprovoked insults you'd like to hurl? I'm waiting."

"Erik, I was kidding. Don't be like that."

"Oh, I'm sure you were. And need I remind you, when you're through with me, you'll be just as ancient as I am now. And if you get remarried...  _if_  you get remarried, you must convince someone that you—an ancient woman with her ex's child who may or may not be emotionally stable—are worth having. And in my personal experience, that's a tall order." His tone had taken on a savage edge. "You don't think I would have preferred to be a little younger in all this? Trust me, I've never exactly enjoyed our little age gap."

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Fine." They fell down her cheeks as quickly. "Fine. Sorry. Go."

"Don't be like that, Christine. I was kidding." His tone didn't change; if anything, it became snide.

"Leave then. I was…" She stared, ashamed, at the floor. Maybe she'd taken it too far. Maybe. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"You were what?" he asked softly, though the anger had not entirely left his voice.

"I was just... I don't know. I was being stupid. Please don't be angry."

Erik took a slow, quiet breath. "Are you actually sorry?"

She nodded vehemently, still crying. "Of course. Yes."

He watched her closely, almost suspiciously, and took a step backwards; but then, with a quiet sigh, he walked towards her and set the bottle of vodka on the counter. Moving behind her, he set his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently. "Then I'm sorry, too."

"Please don't say things like that. I'm scared enough about... the future." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "... You don't want me to get married again."

Erik didn't meet her eyes, his own fixed on her back. "It's something I'd prefer not to think about."

Her voice remained insistent. "Please tell me the truth. You don't, do you?"

"I think you can surmise the answer," Erik replied quietly, "but obviously my feelings on the subject don't matter."

"Let's... I'm sorry. I'm being a jerk."

She pulled one of his hands away from her shoulder and placed it on her stomach. He stiffened at first before shyly stroking the fabric of her shirt.

"It's alright. I was being one, too."

She leaned her head a little more heavily on his chest. "It's a little bit less expected from me, though. I was being unfair."

"It's alright. I deserved it."

Christine reached for his other hand and placed it on the other side of her belly. "You didn't. I'm sorry."

Erik silent for a long moment. Then, warily, he crept closer until his chest touched her back; she felt his masked cheek rest against the top of her head. He sighed softly. "No… you were nineteen when I fell in love with you. That means I deserve it."

Her cheeks flushed again. "I'm sorry things happened this way."

It was a variation on a platitude she'd echoed in gentler moments from the day he knocked on her front door. Then, as now, he made a soft sound of indifference. "I thought we agreed it was no one's fault. No spark and all that."

"You must've thought I was pretty great, huh?"

"That's an understatement." He paused. "You know, I cried myself to sleep that first night we Skyped because I had hoped you wouldn't be as pretty as I imagined you were." He sighed quietly to himself.

She chuckled to herself. "Really?"

"Really. It was embarrassing." He rubbed her stomach absently. "I knew I would never have a shot with you. Pretty girls of nineteen are not interested in walking corpses of thirty-five—that's just the way of the world. This was the only way it would ever work for me, the only way I could have my chance with you or... anyone else for that matter..."

"Don't say that," she said, her tone still reasonably light.

"Why not?"

"I... Was moving on really that impossible?"

He didn't answer at first. "It's said the more you do something, the easier it gets. Moving on is... the opposite for me. The last time nearly killed me. Forcing it one more time..." He trailed off. "My heart couldn't take it, you understand? You get so tired of living alone... so incredibly weary of starting over again and again in the hope that next time will be different, but it never is... You start losing the will to live."

She softened with pity and covered his hands with hers.

"Maybe..." A pause. Her cheeks flushed. "Never mind."

"Maybe what?" he asked softly.

"Maybe you should... move into my room... sooner. Cause... I mean, in case the little guy decides to come in the middle of the night. Or something."

"I'm not across the house, you know, and I won't lock my door. No need to... resort to such drastic measures."

"I get lonely." She attempted to look past her bulging stomach to the floor. "Unless you don't want to."

To her surprise, she felt him pull away.

"It's not that I don't want to," he mumbled. "I imagine I could enjoy that very much, actually…"

Christine turned around to face him. He was staring at the kitchen counter, one hand curled tightly around his forearm. His ears were pink.

"Then why not?" she asked.

"I... can't…"

"What?"

"It isn't you—it's me," he said hastily. He glanced at her before examining the counter again. She could see the frown beyond the edge of the mask. "The fact of the matter is... I… just can't... Please understand, I really can't… Not right now… I'm sorry."

Christine's face burned and she wished a hole would open up and swallow her. "Erik, what I said earlier… I really didn't mean that."

He shook his head, still unable to meet her eyes. "It's… complicated."

"Oh," she mumbled, taking a step away towards the hallway. "Okay. Then don't worry about it. It was a dumb idea anyway."

"No, I… I appreciate it. It's very flattering you would ask, even if only out of concern for the baby. But if you're truly worried he'll come in the night, I'll sleep across the hall. You can call or text or shout… You know I'll hear you."

"I will. Thanks."

An awkward pause descended between them, all the while the kitchen growing smaller and far too hot. Unable to bear company amid the aftermath of her stupid request, she mumbled an excuse about needing to use the restroom and waddled off as quickly as she could in the hope of salvaging what little of her self-respect remained.

That night, she drifted off to sleep in her carefully-arranged nest of pillows, listening to Edgar hunting a fly to the sound of Erik's violin, which drifted up from the studio. The afternoon's fugues were gone, receding to the subdued melodic line of Pärt's  _Spiegel im spiegel,_ haunting and simple, and unbearably lonely.

At least she'd have the baby.

* * *

**A/N: ...Surprise! :D**   
  
**It's incredibly embarrassing how long it's taken to post this chapter and we're genuinely sorry for the wait, for those of you still keeping an eye on this story. With both of us in school and living on opposite sides of the planet it's been harder than expected to find minutes in the day that match up. We're not entirely happy with this bit, but we figured it would be best to post it anyway so the story can keep flowing.**   
  
**We really, really appreciate the support and interest. As a pathetic apology for the five month wait, here is a selection from our Deceptive Cadence playlist if you're into that sort of thing: https://play.spotify.com/user/darlingsociopath/playlist/7ucRcF2SaY6h3aLq9FAS7Z**


	14. Chapter 14

On a cold early morning in September, little baby Jack decided that six in the morning was much too late for sleeping in and announced this with screams loud enough to wake the dead.

Christine cracked open an eye and groaned quietly. More on autopilot than actually coherent, she shuffled to Jack's crib where he kicked and cried with piteous distress. She had read that a baby's cry was biologically designed to be specifically piercing to its mother. While she relished the closeness of her bond with her son, she really wished he didn't want to test it before dawn. Blessed quiet returned only once they settled down into the comfortable nursing chair and Christine began Jack's morning feeding. Tired as she was and wanting nothing more than to go back to sleep for another hour or four, she couldn't help but smile while she gazed down upon his round, plump cheeks, and large, content blue eyes as he latched like a champ.

Jack was the perfect little baby. He rarely cried except when hungry or tired, and he had the sweetest little smile when he heard her voice. He even had a nose, as Erik had pointed out with undisguised relief in the delivery room, much to the amusement of the nurses and doctor.

Had that really been three months ago? It seemed only yesterday that he had entered this world seven and a half pounds, fifteen inches long, capable of little more than grunting, sleeping, and eating. Now, somehow, he was thirteen pounds and steadily growing, with a thick tuft of soft, dark hair she loved to muss every chance she got. She honestly couldn't believe how big he was getting. He could make eye contact and he smiled at her every day with the gummy, toothless grin that she adored.

She read that he would be recognizing her now, too. Perhaps he was even beginning to love her.

When Jack's feeding slowed and his eyes drooped, she tugged him away to rest against her shoulder. As she gently patted his back, she listened to the deathly silent house around her.

It was like this during the day, too. Erik, who seemed to believe that babies were irritable little creatures who slept constantly, no longer played music even during the day, and thus eliminated her only reliable indicator of his mood or location. On the other hand, save for Erik's periodic checks on mother and child where he assessed supply levels and took shopping requests, it was as if she and Jack were the only people in the universe. That, at least, she hadn't minded so much. It let her play at her own kind of pretend fantasy: one where she had her baby but without the complications of a husband. Or, if she felt daring, she was merely a housewife tending to her child while her real husband was away at work.

But, despite his new silence, the man of the house never stayed out of her thoughts for too long. If there was one thing she knew about him, it was that she shouldn't trust him when he went quiet.

Christine set Jack back in his crib beside her bed, and crept out of the bedroom as silently as she could. Padding across the hallway, she hesitated outside Erik's room. Last night, she had heard him stumble his way upstairs to bed for an early night; but it was equally possible he had later escaped to the solitude of the basement as he frequently did on nights when Jack simply wouldn't sleep. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear to the door. When she heard nothing, she carefully pushed open his door and set her eye against the crack. Her heart pounded.

In the dark of his room still untouched by daybreak, Christine spied Erik sprawled face-first atop his bed in his jeans and hoodie from the previous night. The mask lay on the bedside table next to an empty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a smudged glass. The thick air reeked of musk and alcohol; he'd been here a while. Out of habit, Christine watched anxiously for the rise and fall of his chest until she was satisfied he was still breathing.

"Erik," she whispered.

No response.

She called his name again, only a little louder.

Still no response.

Out cold.

Christine hesitated. What were the chances he'd be awake before noon at this rate? Not likely. In the meantime, she could do exactly what she wanted.

It'd be hours before he caught on… and it would be too late if and when he did.

A giddy feeling washed over her as she eased the door shut and snuck back to her bedroom.

Jack was dozing when she returned, but that did not stop her from picking him up again to remove his pajamas and thread his chunky limbs into proper clothes.

"Come on, pumpkin, it's time to go," she whispered when she was done and placed a kiss on his cheek.

/

Several moments later, dressed for the day, Christine crept as quickly and as silently down to the main floor as she could with a sleepy, bobbling baby in her arms. Not that she expected a creaky step or two to wake Erik in this state, but she didn't dare risk it—not when she was so close to a modicum of independence.

Trepidation mounting with every step, Christine made her way to the kitchen directly. Her heart leapt as she approached the sink. Dirty dishes from dinner the night before covered the bottom, still miraculously untouched and unwashed.

She grinned.

What Erik didn't know couldn't hurt him. And honestly, given how drunk he was last night, it might not occur to him he didn't do them.

Jack was finally awake by now and cooed a bit as she secured him in his carrier with his teddy bear. She set him on the breakfast table just on the edge of her vision before running a sink full of hot, soapy water. Slipping on a pair of rubber gloves, she set to work with gusto.

Three years of Erik cooking and cleaning for her and Christine couldn't help but notice just how tired she was of her husband treating her like a pet. It felt good to contribute to the household for once. She wasn't a fragile little child, after all.

When she was smaller, she'd spent many rainy afternoons kneeling on a kitchen chair doing the dishes while her father worked or slept. He used to tell her it was the division of labor. Dad paid the bills, bought the clothes, did the cooking, and got her to do her homework. Christine swept, did dishes, and got up in the middle of the night to turn off the TV, screw the cap on the vodka, and get Dad safely to bed. Later, when she lived alone, she did everything herself. To do nothing at all felt lazy.

"You needn't trouble yourself over those..." a hoarse voice insisted from behind her.

Christine glanced over her shoulder at Erik with a smile as bright and innocent as he was rough and hungover. Unshaven and still dull-eyed, Erik stood at the entrance to the kitchen, ears pink and his hands curling over the back of his neck, looking remarkably more like a man surveying the extent of a trashed hotel room than one finding a few dishes in the sink.

"They were there," she said, keeping her voice low. "Thought it'd be best to get them out of the way."

Erik walked towards her and leaned against the counter, casting a glance in Jack's direction, who was contently chewing on his teddy's furry ear. "I should have done them last night, I apologize. Please, don't worry about them. I'll finish up."

She didn't stop. If anything, she scrubbed a pot more enthusiastically. "It's fine, there aren't many."

"That isn't the point..." he protested and lightly rested a hand on her shoulder. "Please, I insist."

Christine shrugged it off gently. "You always do them."

"Why is that a bad thing?"

Since the beginning, Erik's obsession with cleaning up after her seemed to border on the fetishistic. Anytime he had visited her apartment, if left to his own devices for more than a few minutes, she would always find him in her kitchen scrubbing out old coffee mugs in her sink. Or wiping down her counters. Or taking out her trash. For reasons she couldn't pinpoint, it made her deeply uncomfortable.

Christine shrugged again. "It's not a bad thing. But I can manage it."

"There's no question of that, but you shouldn't have to. Let me finish them. You're busy enough as it is with Jack..." Again, he touched her on the shoulder, a little more firmly, but it didn't deter her in the slightest.

"He seems pretty happy to me, don't you think?" She glanced over at Jack and made a face, hoping to keep him amused. He made an inarticulate sound of delight.

"I don't know. I suppose so." If Erik couldn't dissuade her from dishes, he apparently found it necessary to stand by and supervise. He stared dejectedly at the baby. "I'll... make your bed."

She gave him a strange look. "Okay. Thanks. I guess."

He seemed to deflate a little at her response. "I'll work on the bathrooms, too, today."

Christine cleared her throat awkwardly. "Uh... fine?"

"...take out the trash, too..." he mumbled in defeat, watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Why're you telling me?"

"So you know it's been done and that I haven't been neglectful. I... shouldn't have had that wine last night, I'm sorry..."

"Oh, shush," she said, uncomfortably turning away from him and his vile morning breath. There were a hundred far more important reasons why he shouldn't be drinking, and yet this was the one he mentioned?

"No, it's important. Can I at least help you dry them?" He wrung his hands anxiously. "You shouldn't have to do everything."

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, pausing only to capture the tea towel and throw it over one shoulder before Erik could think of taking it. "I'm not doing everything. Just this."

"Why are you being so stubborn?" he asked quietly, sounding almost hurt. He went to sit at the kitchen counter to stare gloomily at Jack instead, who returned his stare wide-eyed.

Satisfied, Christine scrubbed the last plate, put it in the dish rack, emptied the sink, and removed her gloves. She turned around to stare at Erik, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm not being stubborn. I didn't sign up for a live-in slave."

She watched Jack make a bold grab at Erik's mask. Erik automatically shifted his seat over a couple inches out of reach. He glanced back to Christine, sullenly. "What's wrong with having a live-in slave? I'm more than happy to do it."

"I don't want one. It's weird."

"Why is it weird?" He sounded defensive and handed Jack the bear to distract him, but this worked only for his hands. Jack continued to stare openly.

"Because that's not how marriage is meant to work. One person isn't meant to be a slave."

Erik propped his chin up on one hand against the counter, pointedly watching her instead of the baby, who had just thrown aside the bear and resumed reaching for his father's black leather mask.

Like mother like son, Christine thought grimly.

"I still don't see how that's a bad thing," Erik muttered. "Nobody likes keeping house."

"You do. And I thought you weren't going to wear that thing around him."

Erik shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his hand so his long fingers obscured the mask from Jack's view. "It's something that needs to be done. It's not a matter of liking it."

"Don't ignore me. Take it off."

"I feel more comfortable with it on, thank you," he said shortly. "He won't recognize me otherwise."

"He won't recognize you anyway. You're never around."

"He recognizes you."

Christine paused, placing the tea towel on the bench. She moved over and lifted Jack out of his carrier. He gave a slobbery grin and commenced chewing ineffectively on her chin. "I act like his mom and I'm with him all the time."

"If he won't recognize me either way, then I'd rather keep it on." His gaze traveled from the unattended tea towel towards Christine, then casually stood up.

She scowled. "If you're so intent on being a slave, you could at least do what I say." The scowl was replaced by a grin as she kissed Jack's forehead.

Erik glared and wordlessly removed the mask, setting it on the counter, revealing where the scowl had gone. At the same time, he slunk to the sink to dry the few dishes that remained, putting his back to them both. "I don't know why the mask bothers you so much," he grumbled.

She stopped playing with Jack. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Finishing." He didn't turn around, tossing cutlery into the drawer.

"Stop."

Erik ignored her, setting plates in the cabinet. "No point in stopping now."

She moved over, detaining him with one hand. "Stop."

He didn't look at her, but at least set down the towel, a deep frown fixed on his lips. "Let me be useful."

She didn't try to meet his eyes. "You are."

"You don't need to do dishes. There's no reason to start now. There are plenty of things I'm sure you'd rather be doing."

"That doesn't stop me wanting to." Her voice was cold again.

Erik glanced sullenly in her direction, not making eye contact, before putting his back to them both again. "You're a little ridiculous sometimes, you know? You must be the only wife in the world who is displeased her husband would rather do the dishes."

" _You're_ ridiculous," she snapped.

"How? I took off the mask like you asked." He sounded irritated, though his voice was quiet. He reached for the last glass, wiping it down. "This is almost done. Besides, Jack is happier being held. Look at him."

" _You_ look at him."

Once again, Erik looked pointedly over his shoulder for a few seconds, scowling at them both, before pushing the glass into the cabinet and hanging the tea towel over the oven handle to dry. "There. Happy?"

"No."

"Then I don't know what to tell you, Christine," he said with a loud sigh of annoyance, turning around to grab the mask from the counter. Keeping his glare lowered, he stared at the floor and held the mask in both hands. "Anything else I can do for either of you or have I fulfilled my purpose for the afternoon?"

Christine glanced at Jack, then to her husband. "So you'll do dishes but you won't sit with your family."

He shrugged. "Do you actually want me to?"

She shrugged back. "Do you actually want to do chores?"

"Not particularly."

She sometimes wondered if he enjoyed being difficult. She couldn't exactly hold it against him—she'd be lying if she said that she didn't enjoy it occasionally too. But the thought of him staying obstinately distant, and Jack never knowing what it was like to have a father, even with a… fairly suitable candidate in the house, disturbed her. She couldn't have it that way.

Her face cracked into a smile. "Sit with us."

Erik didn't return the smile, though he did slink to a chair and casually rested his chin in one hand against the table to obscure his profile or lack thereof. He fell silent, staring off at the wet, empty sink. Then, after a moment, he mused sullenly, "do you think he's too young to sit through a film?"

"It's worth a shot," Christine said with a frown. She adjusted Jack's position so that he was facing Erik. He reached out with one fat arm, fascinated.

Erik tentatively poked Jack's palm with one, long finger. He side-eyed her while Jack beamed. "Would _you_ like to sit through a film?"

"Which one did you have in mind?"

"I don't much care for Disney, but... perhaps one of those? We ought to get some anyway for when he's older… They seem to be _de rigueur_ for childhood."

At this her smile was genuinely real. "You'd do that?"

"What, watch an animated film?"

It faltered a little. "Yeah."

"I could think of worse hardships." He gave a bland half-smile. "I ought to see a few of them anyway, so I know what he's watching."

She reached with one hand-carefully-to punch his arm. "Why, 'cause you care?"

Erik shrugged his shoulders, pulling out his phone. "No, because I never much developed a taste for Disney films. Mother hated them and they lost their appeal when I grew older... If I am to be expected to socialize with Jack, then we ought to share a common body of cultural knowledge. He's a bit too young for _Persuasion_ or _Der fliegende Holländer,_ I suppose."

"Maybe a little." Christine smiled a little at that and, with a little difficulty, retrieved her own phone as well from her pocket to examine streaming options herself. Jack immediately aimed a slobbery hand at it. "What about... _Dumbo_?"

"Absolutely not. That one I have had the misfortune to see and hated it."

"I wonder why," Christine said with a wry smile.

" _Beauty and the Beast?_ " Erik glanced at her with narrowed, speculative eyes. "Or is that a little too on the nose do you think?"

Christine's answer came swiftly. "We're not watching that. Even you can't be that self-indulgent."

That wasn't even to mention having to sit through watching Belle taking care of her strange, idiosyncratic father. There were a lot of things she'd intentionally and inadvertently shared with her husband over the years, but how much that movie made her want to cry wasn't about to be one of them.

"Touchy." A pause. " _WALL-E?_ "

"No. And that's not even Disney."

"But, Christine, _it has robots_."

"Exactly. How about _Tarzan_? That was really cute."

"I'm too hungover for Phil Collins."

Jack reached up and tangled a hand in Christine's hair, and she absently kissed his fat little fist.

"What about _Hunchback of Notre Dame?"_ Christine asked, glancing up from her phone. "Have you seen that one?"

Erik shook his head, frowning. Then, after a moment, he read off his phone, " 'A deformed bell ringer falls for a beautiful gypsy girl and lives happily ever-after? Hey, it could happen.' " He gave a shrug and glanced to her. "You know I'm not very fond of these types of stories…"

"The animation is really lovely… and you have to hear the music at least once in your life."

"I don't know if I should trust you. Your taste in music has always been suspect." The corner of his mouth quirked upward.

Christine squinted good-naturedly. "So if you don't like it I'll let you complain the rest of the day."

Erik's budding smirk grew.

/

A little after lunch, the three of them settled down to watch the movie.

Perhaps it was the presence of Jack, but somehow they managed to get through the film without interruption—miracle of miracles. Christine had been reasonably absorbed by the movie, glancing down occasionally to check on Jack, who was slipping, as babies did, in and out of sleep. When he was awake, he was fascinated by the flickering movement on the screen, and he seemed calmed enough to stay still from his mother's narration ("Now that's Frollo, and we don't like him, because he's mean and yucky.").

Erik, on the other hand, satisfied the minimum requirement of 'sitting with his family', keeping at least one cushion's length between him and them. All throughout, he slouched with his arms over his chest, one hand against his cheek to casually hide as much as his bare face as he could. The glass of wine he'd finished somewhere near the middle had done nothing to change the scowl that had fixed itself upon his face as the film progressed. And by the end, he had nothing to say, folding his arms over his chest and staring at the credits as they rolled.

"Did you like it?" Christine asked, glancing over at him while Jack chewed on his fist.

Erik shrugged his shoulders and reached for the remote to flick aimlessly through their streaming selections. Without the mask, the gloom and irritability in his expression had nowhere to hide. He didn't look at her. "No. It was fucking stupid."

At this, she looked markedly unimpressed. "Do you mind not saying that when your son is right here?"

Erik rolled his eyes and sighed, finally looking in her direction. "I bet _you_ liked it."

Though she could hear the challenge in his voice, her expression softened. "Yes, I did, actually. Is there a problem with that?"

"Oh, it's just a little predictable is all. The music is acceptable, I'll give it that much, but that's its only redeeming quality."

He sat up a little straighter, eyeing his empty glass, but Christine reached forward and took it before he could do anything with it. "It's nice. Kids' movies are predictable. That's their job."

Erik grumbled and looked back to the screen. "Oh, yes, my favorite type of predictable ending. The attractive, blonde, handsome fellow gets the girl while the poor ugly bastard whom she sees more as a friend is left more alone than before to—oh, look, a direct-to-home-video sequel where they pair him up with a badly-animated consolation prize." His lip curled in disdain. "Let's consider something else to fill his head with."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I think maybe somebody is reading into this a little too much."

He turned to stare at her full-on. "You didn't see it?"

She glanced down at her lap. "I saw it, but I think maybe you're taking it a little too personally."

If anything it was a little flattering for Erik to compare himself to Quasimodo, who by all appearances was someone willing to sacrifice everything for the person he loved. She had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't appreciate her pointing this out. Perhaps it had been too much to imagine Erik would accept the film's happy ending.

Erik laughed hollowly. "It's a little difficult not to. You know, next time, we should watch something about a young girl coping with the death of her adoring father and badly integrating with her adopted family. Then we'll see how a little too close to home it hits you. _Cinderella_ , perhaps."

Her mouth hardened into a line. "That isn't funny."

"Isn't it? But don't worry, I'll be certain to make comments to remind Jack which characters we're supposed to like and dislike all the same," he continued with an empty smile.

She rolled her eyes. "So we'll be promoting Frollo as a kind and benevolent man of faith from now on, will we?" Her gaze turned steely. "Or, since you seem to want to role model parenting, maybe we can tell him what a great son Norman Bates is. I'm sure you'd agree there."

Erik's jaw tightened and his face went pale. "Excuse me?"

Her eyes remained dark and hard. "You heard me."

"That's... that's not even close to the same thing. At all." His eyes flashed. "But what would you know about it? Some of us didn't fight for our parents' approval."

Christine glanced almost nervously at Jack. "Some of us took active steps to do the opposite, apparently."

Erik seemed to have forgotten Jack was there at all, gaze frozen on Christine; his expression of shock yet to resolve into one emotion or another. He ran a hand anxiously over his face. "I would have done anything for Mother. And I did. I did everything she asked me to, no matter how uncomfortable. You can't tell me you didn't disappoint your father at least once in your life."

She raised an eyebrow. "I disappointed him a lot. That isn't what I'm saying. I didn't persist in doing stuff that involved the police as a teenager." Jack was fussing now that his movie was gone, and Christine lifted him up and pressed his chest against her shoulder, cooing reassurances.

"In my defense, what I did wasn't explicitly illegal at the time, and I certainly didn't do it to spite my mother. I loved her..." He shook his head and looked away, gritting his teeth. "Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore. The point is, I sometimes think you're a little quick to judge and I really wish you'd stop."

"There are a lot of things I wish you'd stop doing. Getting what you want is a rare thing."

"Oh, like what?" Erik sneered and rolled his eyes.

"Being a stunning jerk, for one," she hissed in reply.

Erik threw his gaze to the ceiling with an aggravated sigh. "What, so I can't express my dislike of films anymore? Noted. If all Disney films are like this, perhaps we should forego the rest of them entirely. Pixar, too. Dreamworks..."

"You're such a drama queen sometimes, you know that?"

"And you're impossible to please!" he snapped, getting to his feet and snatching up the empty wine glass from where she had set it out of reach. "Let's hope Jack learns the knack."

Christine got up after him. Jack was whining now. "You're upsetting him," she grumbled.

"What do you want me to do about it?" he asked with a sharp look over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen, eyeing the liquor cabinet with some serious thought.

She followed him—clearly the logical option—gripping Jack all the tighter against her. "Don't use that tone around him." The baby was a little more settled now that they were moving.

"What tone would you have me use?" he sneered, pulling out the half-empty bottle of rum and pouring a little in the bottom of his wine glass. "I'm sure he's tired anyway. Babies need a lot of naps, don't they?"

She watched him coldly. "You would know for sure if you actually paid any attention to him."

"We watched a movie together, didn't we? What more do you want me to do?" He swallowed down the rum and set the glass by the sink.

She saw him grab his mask sitting on the kitchen counter, and she set her free hand on her hip. "Don't you dare," she snapped.

"I'm tired of flaunting this." He gestured sharply at his face, narrowing his eyes. "Do you mind?"

She narrowed her eyes right back at him. "You haven't been _flaunting_. You won't even look at him! What are you so scared of?"

"I don't like being looked at." He slipped the mask back into place and ran his fingers compulsively over the edges. "Least of all by you. I'm more comfortable it with on, alright?"

Her gaze grew markedly more judgmental once the mask was on. "No, it's not alright."

"And why not? I don't demand you... you..." he stared at her, flushing, "go topless or something like that. I'm sure you don't like much being stared at, either."

Her face flushed with embarrassment. "That's completely different. I'm not staring at you, and if he is, I promise he's not thinking about how gross you are. He's just interested."

Erik straightened with triumph and leaned against the counter. "It's exactly the same. It's not decent to go barefaced when others are in the house. And one day, not too far in the future, he will inevitably notice and I don't like having those conversations with children. I'd rather wait until he's old enough to understand."

She scowled at him, face still red. "You're going to give him a complex! Kids don't grow up with their parents wearing masks. That's freakin' weird. Don't do that to him. I don't give a crap about it, and neither will he."

"It might have escaped your notice that I am freakin' weird and he'll inevitably develop a complex or two on my account no matter what. Because if I'm not covering my face at home, I'll be wearing a different one when we go in public, and I don't see an easy way of dealing with it unless you're suggesting I dispense with my masks and faces altogether."

He crossed his arms over his chest, returning her scowl before letting his gaze fall on Jack. The baby stared back with a look that was a strange mix of confusion and delight. Again he reached out with one arm, fingers grasping in Erik's direction. Erik watched this interest with discomfort, but made no effort to approach or indulge him.

"That's all easier to explain if he knows your face from the start," Christine said. "He'll realize it's not normal, but at least he'll know you have one. Why are you so scared of letting him know you?"

"How much do you remember of your mother?" he asked suddenly.

Christine frowned, stepping closer and adjusting Jack so he would be able to touch Erik if he reached out. "Not a lot, I guess. Why?"

"Do you miss her?"

She chewed on her lip, shifting her weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. "Yeah. Why?"

"You miss someone you didn't know well, let alone even remember?"

She turned away from him slightly, suddenly guarded. "Why are you asking me this?"

"Because I never knew my father, therefore I don't miss him. Jack is going to lose his father. Do you really want to hurt him like that?"

She glanced at Jack, then at Erik. "I wouldn't choose not to have known my mom at all, even if it meant not knowing her. If you and I... if things hadn't..." She cleared her throat. "If we had gone our separate ways and never saw each other again, would you want to forget me? Would you wish you never knew me?"

"With the amount of pain that would cause, yes. I would eagerly forget you and everything else in the most effective way possible," he said in a strangely flat and distant voice. "I'm tired of missing those I love. Jack is going to suffer because of me, no matter what, so I want to lessen the effects as much as possible."

She raised her eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "... Bad example... but it won't hurt him less not to know him. He's going to be a strong kid. He'll move on. Don't deprive him of a father for seventeen years. That's much crueler."

"We've already had this conversation. He'll have a mother and that's all a boy needs." Erik's eyes were dark and stared at the wine glass by the sink. His voice hadn't lost that hollow quality. "I'm done talking about this. He'll get used to the mask the way you have. There is nothing I can do for him while he's so small."

"You can let him hold your hand for two minutes," she snapped, taking another step closer. Jack was making small noises with the effort it took to strain against her to reach for Erik. "I'm used to the mask, but I'm also used to you. It doesn't make a difference to me."

Erik glowered sullenly at Jack and reluctantly held out a bony finger for him to grab. Jack made a happy whimper and grasped Erik's finger, staring at the tip of it, fascinated, before dragging it straight to his mouth.

"It makes a difference to me," Erik muttered, face wrinkling as the baby chewed on his finger. "I've always worn one around family as long as I can remember. I'd prefer to continue."

Christine was sighing with frustration. "I know you'd _prefer_ to. But it isn't the best thing to do. Don't you want to teach him to accept himself the way he is? Imagine if you'd had someone to teach you that."

"I've accepted myself the way I am, thank you very much," Erik snapped. "He's a perfectly healthy, normal-looking child. He'll be just fine. Now drop it."

"Don't look at him that way," she replied just as harshly, giving Jack a smile as if to make up for using such a stern tone around him. "And I'm not going to drop it—don't tell me you expect me to believe you. I've never seen someone so uncomfortable in their own skin. Like, ever."

Erik rolled his eyes and relocated his glare towards the back window. He tugged his finger away from Jack but without any real strength, to see how long he would hold on. "You know, after I left home, I didn't actually cover my face in public. At least until my late twenties anyway. A bit of a rebellious phase, I think. I don't know if I ever told you that. And I certainly don't wear masks and faces when you're not around. I've accepted the way I look, but I am also so sick and tired of being gawked at. You would be, too."

She softened at that. Jack hadn't let go. "No, you didn't. But... he doesn't..." She sighed, agitated. "If he stares it's because he thinks you're interesting. Not because he's judging you or something."

"I appreciate the difference, but it still feels the same," he muttered, and rubbed his thumb over the soft back of Jack's hand, before pulling his finger away and shoving his hands into his pockets. "I've said all I have to say about this. The mask stays. I'd like to be comfortable around family for once, if it's all the same to you."

Christine sighed. "It's not, but I guess I'm not in control of you. That's not how this works, right?"

"No, it isn't." He glanced to her. "Are we done now? Have I performed enough paternal interaction to satisfy you?"

She looked affronted. "Don't you want to... oh, never mind. You're excused."

"Don't I want to what?" He turned away to pour himself the last glass from the open wine in the fridge, then set the bottle among the several others in the recycling bin.

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it, _master_. You go get pissed."

"Master, is it? I thought I was your live-in slave." He squinted at her and sipped at his drink. "Don't I want to what?"

"You're versatile," she hissed, rocking Jack in an attempt to send him to sleep. "Nothing. Didn't you want to leave?"

"Fine, be that way," he snapped, walking away from the kitchen towards the basement. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

She watched him, opening her mouth as if to speak and closing it again. Reluctantly she took a few steps to follow. "Don't stay down all day."

"Why not?" He stopped at the door, regarding her warily.

She cleared her throat. "Just don't. Please."

"Give me a reason."

"Don't..." she mumbled, moving Jack so he was more squarely in front of her chest. Like a shield.

Erik took another sip of his wine, expression blank. "That isn't a reason."

"What do you want?" she muttered sullenly.

"Nothing I ever expect to receive," he said quietly, "but for now I'll content myself with asking for one thing: a single reason why you don't want me to spend the night alone in the basement. What difference does it make to you?"

She shrugged. "Because I don't want to spend the night alone up here. Happy?"

Erik watched her thoughtfully, then sighed quietly to himself. "It'll do. I'll be up in a few hours. I have some work to do."

Christine nodded, frowning. She sniffed. "Fine." She and Jack watched him in silence.

In return, Erik's blank gaze flit between the two for a long second, then he quickly turned away and disappeared quickly down the stairs, the wooden panel sliding back into place behind him.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hey guys! As ever we’re so sorry that updates are taking so long, but so grateful that you’ve all stuck around so long to still be reading. We’re currently trying to establish a more concrete schedule, so hopefully in the coming months you’ll be seeing a little bit more of us. Knock on wood.

Hope you all had a holiday break and a wonderful New Years! :-)


	15. Chapter 15

In October, Christine wasn't certain if Erik practiced a religion; but if he did, she believed one of its core tenets was "thou shalt observe Halloween with all thy might and mind, lest ye die." Never in her life had she ever met anyone who celebrated a holiday as aggressively as a retail store.

The ritual always began the morning of the first of October with the appearance of a few tarnished, silver candelabra with black candles on the mantelpiece. She'd missed this the first year they were married, just like she'd missed the dried roses, the articulated animal skeletons, and portraits on the walls whose eyes followed passersby. But by that point, the macabre infestation overtaking the house day by day like dry rot was nearly inescapable—that year and the years that followed. Trays of pinned scorpions replaced coffee table art books, improbable creatures trapped beneath bell jars appeared on side-tables, soap dispensers became skull-shaped, cartoon spiders lurked on banisters swathed in fake cobweb, and kitschy accent pillows with anatomical prints materialized upon every sofa in the house until finally—as if the house could not contain any more Halloween—Erik cheerfully set out an army of leering jack-o-lanterns to guard the front porch as the sun fell on All Hallows Eve.

The sun was beginning to set on that very night as Christine fished from the sink another one of Erik's festive skull-covered plates—his "bone china," he had the audacity to call it—and resumed scrubbing it under hot water. After setting it in the dishwasher, she glanced over her shoulder to Jack in his colorful floor seat on a nearby pumpkin-shaped kitchen rug. Jack was propped up against a stack of giant bat cushions, gurgling as he gummed a brightly colored rattle. At five months old, he was able to sit with assistance, and had begun blowing raspberries in attempts to make her laugh—much to her aggravation as he had a habit of doing this right before bed. She made a face at him, and he laughed explosively.

Edgar, lounging on the breakfast nook table, ignored them both in favor of staring at the dismembered alien hand in a glass case beside him. It twitched every time his tail undulated nearby.

Every now and again, Christine amended her assessment that she was married to a Bond villain. For at least for the month of October she was, in fact, probably married to Jack Skellington. At night, if she listened quietly while the baby slept, she could distantly hear Erik bringing up boxes from the basement, whistling 'The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.'

She had to admit, the whole thing was a little... endearing. It was nice to realize that her husband had at least once innocent hobby. Not to mention, whatever time Erik spent turning their home into a macabre Advent calendar was time he wasn't prowling the house, stopping her from doing dishes or taking out the trash.

And that was perfectly all right with her.

"Almost done, baby, then we can watch a movie, 'kay?"

No response. In fact, no sound at all.

Christine glanced over to his carrier.

It was empty. Jack was gone.

She couldn't breathe. The dish brush fell from her hand into the soapy water, splashing suds over her shirt. She hissed and tugged off her gloves, throwing them blindly back towards the sink and hearing them splatter on the tile floor instead.

_Erik._

What was he doing? Why?

Was this because she decided to do a load of laundry the other day behind his back after Jack spit up on the last clean onesie in the house? Or was it because she tried to look up the new Mumford and Sons album on YouTube last night even though her Internet was so slow there wasn't any point? Why else would he take her baby? What possible interest could he have in a child he spent most of his time avoiding?

"Erik?" she called, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. She trembled in the doorway to the rest of the house.

Nothing.

For the last couple hours, she realized, he'd been oddly quiet and gone far too long to be simply arranging pumpkins outside.

It was probably the Mumford and Sons.

If Erik hurt a single hair on her baby's head, she would kill him. Christine glanced back towards the silverware drawer, wondering where Erik put the steak knives after dinner last night. Even if she had to use a dinner plate, corkscrew, or whatever... she'd do it. She'd destroy him.

"Boo," said a quiet voice a couple feet behind her.

Christine jumped, turning with a sound of dismay. "God, what in the h-" She stopped just as quickly, blinking repeatedly.

Clutched between a pair of spidery hands was the most adorable costumed pumpkin she had ever seen. Jack's tubby body was enclosed in a plush orange sack, his green-stockinged arms and legs coiling and kicking, with an equally green beret set at a jaunty angle over his messy head of hair. Erik, masked, hid his face behind Jack's shoulder so only his eyes peered over.

She rubbed her face, but the sight was still there. "... What."

"Now, don't panic, Christine," Erik assured her in a solemn voice, "but it seems we've fallen victim to a little trick. Though you may not recognize him, Jack is perfectly safe—perfectly unharmed, as you can see—in spite of the fact that he'll very likely remain a pumpkin for the rest of the evening. It's nothing to be alarmed about; these things do happen from time to time, you know. 'Tis the season and all that."

She stared, taking a few steps towards them. She poked Jack's costume with a smile dawning on her face. "You scared me half to death just now," she said in a voice that tried to be accusatory.

Erik continued to hide behind the baby, but the smile was evident in his voice and eyes. "I apologize for that. I had planned to have him back in place before you noticed, but he failed to see the grand vision of things and squirmed about."

Christine took Jack away, grinning, and lifted him up above her head, resulting in a delighted giggle. She glanced back at Erik. "This is very sweet of you, but I'm afraid I can't go out with you guys."

Erik's shoulders dropped. After a beat of silence, he ventured in a hurt voice, "...Why not?"

She positioned Jack on one hip. "Unless you want me to go as a crazy housewife...?"

"You're far too pretty for that…"

Christine ducked her head at the compliment, smiling very slightly. "Or perhaps in, like, ten years?"

"Oh, I highly doubt that," he scoffed, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. "Thirty, perhaps, if I'm being unkind and unfair. We'll find you something far more suitable in the meantime."

Her smile disappeared. "Thirty. Yeah. Heh."

They would no longer be on speaking terms in thirty years.

As if sensing her traitorous thoughts, Erik sighed. She followed his gaze to the dinner dishes half-washed in the sink. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—in her defense, to distract him, when suddenly his gaze shot at her. She refused to step back.

"Well, that's fine," Erik said after a beat, the joviality returning to his voice as if switched on. "I wasn't seriously planning on taking him out this year anyway. Perhaps when he starts walking..."

She glanced back down at Jack, who was making a grab for her hair. "We'll... we'll have to do costumes next year, huh?"

Erik smiled almost vacantly, his attention falling to Jack. "Almost certainly. What do you think? Bellatrix to my Voldemort? Jack can be Nagini. Don't you think he'd make the most perfect little snake? Though the effect is ruined entirely if he's walking by then… That's no good at all."

She tried to give a disparaging frown, but it morphed into a smile. "That's awful. I don't actually _like_ scaring kids, you know."

"How would that be scaring children? Children love Harry Potter. They'd eat it up."

She scowled slightly. "I'd be a good Bellatrix, would I?"

Erik squinted at her. "Not without a great deal of makeup," he mused, pursing his lips slightly. "Some paint for your teeth… Unless you can think of someone else... oh, Lily to my James? Jack could be Harry. There, come up with something more perfect, I dare you." Erik thumped the table with a hand.

Christine raised an eyebrow. "You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you, Prongs?"

Erik smirked and rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. "I've given it a bit of thought, yes. I've always loved the idea of couples costumes, you know, but never had anyone to do them with. And now that we have Jack... Well, it would be fun, wouldn't it? Don't you think? You wouldn't have to do anything at all."

She pressed her lips together, either to restrain a smile or to express her displeasure, she wasn't certain which. "I'd be a hideous ginger though."

"You aren't giving yourself enough credit. You'd make a beautiful Lily—" The sound of the doorbell interrupted him and he sprang to his feet. "Hold that thought," he said, walking briskly from the kitchen to snatch up a heaping bowl of king-sized candy bars from the side table in the hallway. A tiny chorus of "trick-or-treat!" followed, and a few seconds later, Erik returned and resumed the conversation as if nothing had happened, pointing a finger in her direction. "It doesn't have to be Lily, you know. You could be Luna to... oh, I don't know, but we could make something work. Or you could be Toriel to my Sans. Angel to my demon... there are so many possibilities."

Christine grimaced. Truth was, the thought had crossed her mind once or twice that they could definitely do a fantastic couple's costume. Lily and James, fine. Angel and demon, definitely. Though maybe not Toriel and Sans. A gross, skeletal, pun-loving dude in a hoodie with the uncanny ability to terrify people wasn't exactly a costume for him. But no matter what they did, her problem lay in the fact that people would gawk and stare and tell them that they were such a _perfect_ couple. Maybe they should just do Jessica Jones and Kilgrave and get it over with.

She tilted her head. "We'll think about it, 'kay?"

Erik's smile flagged and he shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "It's a silly thing, really. I wasn't being serious… Not really..." A bit of silence followed as he picked a piece of green thread from his t-shirt, which read 'You can't skele-run from my skele-puns.' "How is it that I always get surrounded by Halloween grinches?" he muttered. "First Ghaz, now you…"

Christine shifted Jack against her, gently rubbing her cheek against his felt hat. "Ghaz doesn't like Halloween?" She tried not to smile.

"Utterly loathes it, the whiny baby. You have to twist his arm clear to breaking before he'll consent to even look at a pumpkin. Did I ever tell you about the time _he hated it so much he punched me_?"

"...No?"

"Mmm." He turned his attention back to their son. "But you'll at least let me dress up Jack every year, won't you?"

"What ever happened to Ghaz and Darius visiting this summer?" she interrupted.

Erik looked away and shrugged. "Oh, Ghaz got… roped into doing network analysis for some last-minute, tedious... gang audit _thing…_ because people won't stop shooting each other over narcotics or something. He's a meddling kill-joy like that."

She rolled her eyes, and glanced down to Jack too. It wasn't ever worth asking more questions. "He _does_ look very cute."

"Doesn't he?" Erik cheered at that. "I made the hat myself."

Her grin returned. "How long did it take you?"

"Not terribly long. I'm rather proficient with thread and needle."

Her gaze remained on her son. "Thank you for doing that."

"You're welcome. Do you really like it?"

She briefly made eye contact. "Yeah. I do."

Erik glanced bashfully away, rubbing the back of his neck again. "I'm glad. I was wondering if tonight you'd like to watch a film with me tonight while we tend our pumpkin. I picked up some cider."

She reached to rub his arm. "We'll have to station ourselves near the front door, though."

To her surprise, Erik didn't shy away. "I've no objections."

Speak of the devil, the doorbell rang again and he pulled away to attend to the door. Christine heard a baritone chorus get only as far as "trick or-" before devolving into high-pitched shrieking, followed by several words that ought not to have been said anywhere near Jack. As shoes pounded the sidewalk, getting further and further away, Erik's full-throated laughter resonated up the hallway. He slunk to the kitchen a second later, lingering near the doorway. She caught a glimpse of an unapologetic smirk on his bare face before he resettled the mask into place.

"High school kids," he offered by way of explanation, noticing her stare. "They've no business trick-or-treating."

Christine tried to look unimpressed, but a smile won out. "You've gotta let me watch at some point."

"Oh, if I must," he replied with a playful sigh. "Why don't you and Jack get comfortable in the front room and I'll set up our film. Any preferences?"

She watched him silently for a moment, as though he hadn't spoken.

She had forgotten he could be like this. Tolerable. Nice. Focused on things independent of her. She hadn't seen much of it after they met in person. That was one thing she could get behind about Halloween. It made him happy. It made things feel the way they'd been before everything got complicated to a nearly fatal degree.

Was this what normal felt like?

Erik frowned a little and compulsively traced the edges of the mask with his hands. "Was it something I said?"

She shook her head. "Huh?"

"Is something the matter?"

"No..." Quickly, before she could think twice about it, she went on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the lips. Then she escaped to the other room as instructed.

Christine immediately went about nestling Jack on the couch between two spider-print pillows, unnecessarily fussing with his costume, unable to look over her shoulder to where she could sense Erik's eyes boring into her back. Her cheeks burned.

For an idiot with the perceptiveness of a shoe, he sometimes got under her skin in ways that made her want to hide under her bed. If she looked up, he'd probably read her thoughts and realize she didn't _completely_ hate him right now, at which point he'd start crying or crawling around on the floor. Or both. And she was never in the mood for that.

When she finally worked up the courage to look back to the doorway, Erik was gone.

A few moments later, once she had made herself comfortable with Jack playing in her lap, Erik stepped into the front sitting room with a large, flat LCD monitor dangling with cables under one arm. Steadfastly avoiding her eyes, his ears and neck bright red, Erik wordlessly set the screen upon the coffin coffee table.

"Did... you have any preferences or... did I already ask that?" he mumbled.

"I don't mind. Nothing too scary."

"What about _Hocus Pocus?_ That isn't scary." He finally made eye contact, glancing to her with the beginnings of a stupid smile that threatened to tug the corners of his mouth up behind the mask.

She frowned in thought. "If we can turn it off when he gets upset."

"He won't get upset," Erik assured her as he plugged in the monitor and it flashed to life. "But if he does... of course we can. You've seen it, haven't you?"

"Should I have?" She looked slightly embarrassed, paying more attention than necessary to coaxing Jack into wrapping his little hands around her index fingers.

Erik made a sound of indignation. "I am seriously beginning to question who had the deprived childhood." He joined her on the couch and gestured vaguely in the air at the screen. A queue of titles appeared. As he flicked lazily through a long line of image tiles, he sent her one side-long glance. "It's a cute film. You'll like it."

She pouted. "We usually didn't have a TV, shut up."

"Again, I'm beginning to question..." he repeated again, teasingly, and shyly bumped his shoulder against hers. "That's alright. You didn't rot your brain like I did."

She bumped back. "Or my teeth. I've only been trick-or-treating, like... twice?"

This time, Erik turned to stare at her and blinked slowly. " _Only twice?_ That is the worst thing I have _ever_ heard. Next year, we're going to go trick-or-treating with Jack. No excuses."

Christine stared sheepishly at the floor, listening to the film's opening titles shift from quietly mysterious to rambunctiously adventurous with nowhere to go. "I'm not going as Lily though." Her face had turned red.

"It doesn't have to be Lily. That was only an example," he assured her quietly. "What would you like to dress up as? Surely you must have wanted to. Every child does."

Feeling his eyes on her, she let her hair fall over her shoulder and in front of her face. "I don't know. I never really thought about it as a kid."

A lie. Once or twice, in fact, she had wanted to be a Disney princess, but glancing at the lush costumes and beautiful wigs the other girls in school had made her decide otherwise very quickly. All they'd be able to afford was some dollar store dupe, and it wasn't as though she needed another reason for the other girls to tease her. It was bad enough that most of the clothing she'd owned at the time looked like outdated patchwork. At least she didn't stay at any one school for very long.

"Really?" Erik watched her a few seconds longer before returning his attention to the screen. "Did you never like playing dress-up?"

She shrugged, glancing nervously at him. "Not really. We didn't have a lot of spare... stuff? Dad just told a lot of stories about everything."

"As your father told excellent stories, I suppose it balances out," he said softly and shyly scratched at her back. "I'm certain in a year's time you'll be able to come up with something you'd like to dress up as. It'll be fun."

She straightened slightly, but her mouth curled into a smile before she could stop it. "You can choose, if you want. You've got ideas."

"I want you to have fun, too. I'll come up with something good, I promise."

She glanced at him. "I don't mind. You pick."

"Why not Lily? I thought you liked her."

And glanced at Jack. "Because I don't want to."

"I was only curious..." He sighed, and the doorbell rang again. Automatically he got to his feet to attend to it, glancing through the window as he passed. A handful of elementary children beamed on the doorstep and he crouched down to let them paw greedily through the bowl. When they'd gone, he returned to his place on the couch, the smile disappearing into a thoughtful frown. "Fine, Jack Skellington and Sally," he said with another sigh, then glanced to her. "I don't much care for that film, but if it pleases you, I'd do it. You'd be ginger again, though."

She pursed her lips. "How is it that I've had boyfriends and the idea of this sort of thing never occurred to me once, but you..." The question died as soon as it formed; she felt herself mentally retreating from the familiarity of such a personal question, from the easily-guessed answers. She met his eyes. "That sounds like a nice idea."

Erik shrugged with a bland smile and ears beginning to turn red. "Because you don't enjoy Halloween and I'm a lonely romantic. Jack and Sally it is. We'll look excellent." He reached out to brush the baby's cheek, who turned to boggle at him. "He can be Zero with a little red nose."

She grinned, leaning against him. "We will. I'll start looking for blue body paint."

"Can I do your makeup?" he asked, his hand shifted to stroke at her hair.

She tilted her head, smiling indulgently. "I can't, so I guess so."

Erik, with startling boldness, carefully pressed a kiss to her crown. "We'll have so much fun, you'll see."

She didn't react. "Of course we will. And maybe we can do Lily and James in a few years. Do the Mirror of Erised. Break some kids' hearts."

"I would like that very much," he replied softly. She felt his masked cheek rest against the top of her head. "Thank you."

"Just doing my job," she mumbled, shifting Jack against her. He'd fallen asleep.

"And you're doing it marvelously."

"Thanks. He wasn't too hard to dress, was he?"

"He's very fond of tossing about his arms and legs in a very unhelpful fashion and is a lot stronger than I was expecting. You probably could have gotten it done faster than I did. He's very pudgy. I like that."

Christine smiled knowingly. "You love him, don't you?"

"He has grown on me," Erik replied carefully.

She nudged him with an elbow. "Don't worry, I won't be jealous. Promise."

"As if you could be jealous of anything," he replied with a chuckle.

"What's that meant to mean?"

"Just that I can't recall you ever being jealous, for as long as I've known you. It's an astounding quality, I think."

Her lips quirked. "If you're judging how jealous I get compared to how jealous you get..." Her eyes widened. "Um. Forget I said that."

"What, are you saying my sainted Christine experiences such a terrible emotion?" Erik snorted and returned to stroking her hair. "No need to apologize, I'm all too aware..."

He needn't worry, she told herself; she wasn't apologizing.

"I... not so much anymore. I guess I used to. But..." She cleared her throat. "When you're... how you are... it's pretty hard to... doubt your devotion, or whatever."

"What do you mean, how I am?"

She shifted in her place. "Nothing." Conversations about feelings inevitably turned into arguments, and if it was one about _his_ feelings, she was bound to lose.

"Please?" he asked, voice small. He rubbed her back.

She cringed. "You just... get a little jealous sometimes. That's all I meant." Surely he couldn't take issue with that—it was true, and a huge understatement at that.

"Oh... Right, yes..."

"Don't worry about it."

Erik replied with a neutral sound of acknowledgment before pausing. "Do you want me to get out the cider or shall I hold off?"

Her lip curled before she could stop it. "Don't let me stop you. I'm fine though."

"That's alright," Erik replied softly, kissing the top of her head, then getting up to disappear into the kitchen. "Can I get you anything else?"

She frowned in the direction of the screen. "Glass of water, please."

Erik returned a few moments later with a tall glass of water in one hand and a steaming mug of cider mixed with what was anyone's guess in the other. He offered the former to her with a smile as he returned to his seat, relaxing back into the couch. "This film is a little dated, admittedly, but I find it charming… "

Christine blinked, resting her glass on her knee. "Sorry. I haven't been paying attention."

"That's all right," he replied in an easy tone and took a careful sip of his drink. On the second one, though, he hooked a thumb under the edge of the mask and tossed it wordlessly to the table. "It's good for ambiance anyway."

"Yeah, guess so."

Erik took another sip, then let it rest warm on his leg. He sighed quietly. "Is everything alright?"

She gave him a cursory smile. "Yeah. I'm glad you..." She gestured at the mask. "Everything's fine."

Erik shrugged his shoulders ambivalently, though he did return a small smile. "It's Halloween, what the hell. I traditionally go out on the Thirty-First without covering up anyway. I enjoy basking in compliments on my excellent effects makeup. I used to make good money with this face, you know."

She cautiously maneuvered to lean against him a little, glass in one hand and sleeping baby in the other arm, nearer to Erik. "It suits you. You relax."

Erik slid his arm around her shoulder with equal caution, pointedly watching the screen as he did so. He took another long sip. "Do I? I don't really feel it... Old habits, I suppose."

She glanced at his hand resting on her shoulder. "You don't feel it?"

"Not exactly." He squeezed her shoulder, then curled his fingers under into a loose, self-conscious fist.

She laughed. "Can I try your cider?"

Erik arched an eyebrow, giving her an amused side-eye, but offered the mug to her all the same. "Of course you may."

She took it with a smile, taking a generous swig. She sighed with satisfaction and handed it back, thanking him with the sweetest grin she could muster.

"I can make you one if you like it," Erik said cajolingly, accepting it back with a crooked smile. "The night is still... well, it's young at heart."

She frowned. "I shouldn't. I can't give up coffee, but..." She glanced at Jack. "I shouldn't. Thanks."

"Whatever you like," he said softly. "So, ah... when do you think Jack will take his own room?"

Her eyes narrowed, but not harshly. "Does he bother you or something?"

"No, not at all," he assured her quickly. "I was only... curious... I don't know how long is normal. He's getting rather big."

Her arms tightened protectively. "He's just fine. He'll be moved when he's ready."

"How do you know when that is?"

"He's not even a year old yet. Relax."

"A year?" Erik frowned.

"It depends," she said, markedly defensive. "He's too little."

"If you say so, I was only curious," he murmured, gulping down another swig and glancing towards her. "I'm... I'm thinking about... turning in, you see."

She met his eyes. "It's not that late."

Erik glanced away shyly. "No, it isn't, but, ah... you're... you're free to..." He pulled his arm away and curled both hands around the mug.

Her face hardened. "What's the matter?"

He took another long drink before responding. Erik's cheeks flushed an impressive color. "I, ah... it's ridiculous but I was wondering if you'd... like to... ah... share a bed tonight."

She looked intensely scandalized. "Are you... um... sorry, I'm... what?"

"To sleep, I mean. Only to sleep." Erik firmly rubbed his face with his free hand, eyes fixed upon the floor, mortified. "I... no, it's a ridiculous idea, like I said... but I... I thought I might ask all the same, you know. Seeing as it _is_ Halloween, you know." He finished off the last of his cider and set the mug on the coffee table.

Christine sighed with a roll of her eyes. Cold, maybe, but it distracted her from thinking too much about her own embarrassment, which Erik's awkwardness was only making worse. It wasn't like there was really anything to be embarrassed about in the first place. He was only accepting an offer she'd extended not long ago, an offer for an arrangement that would probably be good for the both of them in the long run.

Something that might make them both a little more normal… if not in her eyes, then in Jack's when he got old enough.

Normal was good. Normal was nice.

"Lemme get ready for bed first, okay?" she sighed. "Give me a few minutes. I need to put Jack down, too."

Erik did not make eye contact as he picked up both their cups to take to the kitchen. "Of course, take, ah... take all the time you need, it's... ah.. thank you."

She shook her head with another sigh and went up the stairs towards her bedroom, carefully laying Jack down on her bed, changing him into slightly more appropriate pajamas without jostling him about too much. The lovingly-stitched costume she folded and set aside at the foot of the bed. Maybe Erik would want it back; she never knew where he was concerned, sometimes… After, she held Jack's sleepy weight in her arms for a moment longer than necessary, then pressed a few gentle kisses to his forehead and nose, and set him in his crib.

A few moments later, she slipped into bed, dressed in the least sultry pajamas she could think of—a pair of comfortable sweatpants and a hoodie. She nestled against the feather pillows and watched the door to the hallway, a cracked sliver of light in the restful dark of the room. Waiting. Her heart pounded for reasons she couldn't express-or maybe more accurately, reasons she didn't _want_ to express.

They were going to share a bed, that was all. It would be innocent, platonic, and achingly normal. And if all went well, that normal might seep into Erik just enough that maybe by next Halloween she might find a new set of bone china in the liquor cabinet instead of vodka, or a not-quite-human articulated skeleton where the wine rack once was.

If it were possible for Jack to know a father who didn't reek of alcohol, she'd do it. She'd make it happen.

At long last, the crack of her bedroom door slowly, silently, widened to admit Erik. In silhouette he stood on the threshold, hesitating as always. Christine glanced up with a faint, forced smile and noted, wryly, that their pajamas matched.

Uncertain of what to say, she cautioned him in a whisper: "careful, Jack's asleep."

Erik's sole response was a vague, silent nod as he peered searchingly into the far corners of the room until finally she felt, rather than saw, his eyes on her. His hand, currently wrapped around the doorknob, gripped tighter. A few seconds passed. She opened her mouth to say something, but without a word he stepped backwards and out of sight.

A flicker of indecision. Quickly, and as quietly as she could, she extricated herself from her bed and padded out into the hallway after him. Just in case, she closed the bedroom door behind her as casually as she could.

Erik stood a little ways down the hallway. In the light, she could see now that his bare, sallow face was a brilliant red and his eyes were fixed resolutely on the carpet.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, frowning.

Erik moved away further still, now standing at the top of the stairs.

"Actually, this... this really is a terrible idea, the more I think on it," he mumbled. "I apologize. I shouldn't have suggested it."

"Erik, what's the matter?"

He curled both hands over the back of his neck, and glanced forlornly in her direction. "I'm not ready for this, in point of fact. I really thought I was this time, but it appears I'm not. Thank you for indulging me. I apologize for distressing you needlessly. Good night. I love you."

And then just like that, he was gone down the stairs.

Stunned, she stood alone in the hallway, finding it hard to breathe. She waited. And then she waited a little longer. When Erik did not come slinking back up the stairs, she retreated with slumped shoulders back into her room, and left the door open a crack for Edgar.

When back in bed, she stilled her breathing, listening hard into the suddenly vast silence of the house. The trick-or-treaters outside had all but disappeared. She curled her arms around herself, struggling to throw off an increasingly oppressive feeling of shame and disappointment, and the uncomfortable sensation that her bed felt empty.

Somewhere in the dark, Jack began to fuss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… it's not like it's been a /full year/ between updates. It's actually /three days short/ of a full year! That counts for something, right? Maybe? Aha. No? Okay. If anybody is actually reading this we are very, very sorry for how long it's taken to put this out. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint you too much! Between the two of us, combined excuses are as follows: soprano school is hard and time consuming, and so is finishing a master's program while also applying for a PhD program. But we haven't forgot about this story.
> 
> (There are also some other writing projects going on, like slowly writing down—hopefully for publication!—the Mod!AU Phantom novel that directly inspired the Erik you're reading… Did you know this fic is actually an AU of an AU of an AU? Because here at DC, we like to keep things complicated.)
> 
> Lastly, because we really appreciate you guys—if you're still there!—we come bearing another little gift to apologize for the wait. Look forward to another update on this account sometime this week if you're hankering for a bit of Ghaz...

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [That Time Ghaz Hated Halloween](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9407201) by [daae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daae/pseuds/daae), [Flyting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyting/pseuds/Flyting)




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